and COPY, 
1898. 




LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

Chap. Copyright No 

Slielf.......S55 Hf 

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



HEART'S-EASE 



A Mother's Offering 



By MRS. L. B. HANCOCK 



"^ 



CINCINNATI 
PRINTED BY CURTS & JENNINGS 



. H 53 Hi- 



•?,i70 



COPYRIGHT, 1898, 
BY MRS. L. B. HANCOCK. 






.Wf 4-- 1899 






TO THE 
IN THE GREAT 

••HOUSEHOLD OF THE SORROWING,** 

AND 

In JVIcmory 

OF THE 

AWGEL-CHILD WHO PASSED TO HIS HEAVENLg HOME 

DEC. 7, 1874, 

IS THIS VOI.UME; 



j®refGiCe. 



" There is no flock, however watched and tended, 
But one dead lamb is there ; 
There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended, 
But has one vacant chair." 

" The air is full of farewells to the dying, 
And mourning for the dead; 
The heart of Rachel for her children crying. 
Will not be comforted." — Longfellow. 

T has been said, and I believe 
truthfully, that .he who speaks 
or writes of the death of little 
children will never lack for au- 
ditors or readers; but never did I fully 
realize this, or the darkness of the shadow 
cast by one little grave, till death entered 
my own home-circle — invaded my own 
fireside — and robbed me of my own pre- 
cious boy. 

The following selections consist of some 
5 




6 PREFACE. 

original thoughts, and some tender, loving 
contributions from dear friends ; but mainly 
they are "waifs," gathered from news- 
papers, magazines, or our own standard 
authors, in which a weeping mother 
found vent for her own sad emotions; 
but at the solicitations of friends I have 
concluded to send them out on a mis- 
sion of sympathy to other smitten house- 
holds. Perchance they may touch some 
responsive chord in the hearts of other 
mothers who have been bereaved as I 
was — who suffer, and who have been, like 
myself, crushed by a peculiar weight of 
woe. 

A short time since, mother, and you, 
too, were busy with cares that have ceased 
forever — a child to sing to sleep, who now 
sleeps the sleep unwaking. 

You were making garments for one who 
now walks evermore in white. You clasped 
a tiny, plump figure in your arms to be 
bathed and clad, who now soars with sing- 
ing far into the azure blue. You have wept 



PREFACE. 7 

until tears are exhausted; the ordinary 
cares and labors of life seem profanation, 
and amidst the sacred hush that has come 
to you, mother, we dare not tell you of any 
earthly pity, or speak of others who have 
lost, like you, perhaps, " the one lamb from 
the fold." You feel there was some win- 
ning grace, some bond of special nearness, 
that makes your sorrow beyond all other 
sorrow. But while words of sympathy 
seem such utter mockery at a time like 
this, we can, at least, mingle our tears and 
commend each other to the great Consoler 
who wept with the sisters in Bethany ; to 
the Divine compassion of Him who yielded 
up his only Son; and in going to him we 
go to one who knows more than we pos- 
sibly can of loss. He only can heal bleed- 
ing hearts. 



With the flight of years, as Time has 
mellowed and softened my own grief, to 
the original compilation of tender, touch- 
ing bits of pathos I have added brighter, 



8 PREFACE. 

more sparkling "waifs" of poesy, that 
steal o'er the heart, sweet as vesper 
chimes, or 

" Like some soft, sweet lullaby 
Heard in days long since gone by. 
When pressed to a bosom white, 
Mother's singing bushed us quite." 

Mrs. ly. B. Hancock. 



'% tf£ar a vo\a vjovl can nnt tjear, 
^tltrtj satjs S must not statj; 

S uz a tjant) ijou can not uz, 
W\]xc\] bzckom mz araaij." 




HEflf?T'S-EASE. 

Of ploWer^. 

BY M. F. BGAN. 

HERB were no roses till the first 
child died; 
No violets, nor balmy-breathed 
heart's-ease ; 
No heliotropes, nor buds so dear to bees, 
The honey -hearted suckle ; no gold-eyed 
And lowly dandelion ; nor, stretching wide. 
Clover and cowslip-cups, like rival seas. 
Meeting and parting, as the young spring 
breeze 
Runs giddy races, playing seek and hide. 
For all flowers died when Eve left paradise. 
And all the world was flowerless awhile. 
Until a little child was laid in earth ; 
Then from its grave grew violets for its eyes, 
And from its lips rose-petals for its smile ; 
And so all flowers from that child's 
death took birth. 



12 A mother's offering 



fHE stars that disappear at morn, 
O think not they are fled ; 
They are not lost, they are not gone, 
But 'mid the glory shed 
Around them by the Source of Light, 
They shine more sweetly than at night, — 
It is the night that 's dead. 

And thus the loved who disappear, 

Pass like the morning's flight. 
And walk in paths so sweet and clear, 

As blind us with the light. 
They sit upon the azure day. 
They float on twilight's downy gray, 

And on the clouds at night. 

O deep and wondrous heart of man, 
Strange fount of joy and woe; 

In this sad life no eye may scan 
Thy current's ebb and flow ! 

But in the glorious world to come 

The voice of discord shall be dumb, 
And thou thyself shalt know. 



TO THE BEREAVED. 1 3 



To "preddie I^ancocH. 

BY MAMMA. 

fAM sitting, little Freddie, by my case- 
ment, sad and lone, 
And my inmost heart is grieving for 
my best beloved one. 
I am waiting, little Freddie, till the shadows 

pass away. 
And these dim eyes will behold thee in a 

bright and perfect day. 
I am waiting, little Freddie, till the stars 

peep out above. 
And your sister Edith whispers, " That 's 

the home of him we love." 
But I 'm lonely, little Freddie — O so lonely 

none can tell — 
For you, of all my babies, loved poor mother 

passing well. 
I am thinking, little Freddie, till my heart 

will almost burst, 
Of the little chiseled features, the sweetest 

that I nursed; 
I am weeping, little Freddie, for the loving 

head that lay 
On my bosom till it slumbered, and I laid 

it snug away. 



14 A mother's OFFERINCP 

I am looking, little Freddie, at your tiny 

vacant chair, 
But I miss its pretty occupant, who conned 

his lessons there. 
I am listening, little Freddie, to the blithe 

birds as they sing, 
For they 'mind me of you, darling, as they 

pass me on the wing. 
I am weary, little Freddie, and I fain would 

lay my head 
Down beside " my precious boy " in his 

green and narrow bed. 
And I'm hoping, little Freddie, that the 

time may not be long 
When amongst God's blessed angels I may 

hear " my Freddie's " song. 



"If We Knew." 

fF we knew the woe and heartache 
Waiting for us down the road ; 
If our lips could taste the wormwood, 
If our backs could feel the load, — 
Would we waste the day in wishing 

For a time that ne'er can be? 
Would we wait in such impatience 
For our ships to come from sea? 



TO THE BEREAVED, 15 

If we knew the baby fingers 

Pressed against the window-pane 
Would be cold and stiff to-morrow, 

Never trouble us again, — 
Would the bright eyes of our darling 

Catch the frown upon our brow? 
Would the print of rosy fingers 

Vex us then as they do now? 

Ah, these little ice-cold fingers ! 

How they point our memories back 
To the hasty word and action 

Strewn along our backward track! 
How these little hands remind us, 

As in snowy grace they lie. 
Not to scatter thorns but roses, 

For our reaping by and by. 

Strange, we never prize the music 

Till the sweet- voiced bird has flown; 
Strange, that we should slight the violets 

Till the lovely flowers are gone ; 
Strange, that summer skies and sunshine 

Never seem one-half so fair 
As when winter's snowy pinions 

Shake their white down in the air ! 

Lips, from which the seal of silence 

None but God can roll away, 
Never blossomed in such beauty 

As adorns the mouth to-day. 



1 6 A mother's offering 

And sweet words that freight our memory 

With their beautiful perfume, 
Come to us in sweeter accents 

Through the portals of the tomb. 

Let us gather up the sunbeams 

Lying all around our path ; 
Let us keep the wheat and roses, 

Casting out the thorns and chaff; 
Let us find our sweetest comfort 

In the blessings of to-day. 
With a patient hand removing 

All the briers from our way. 

l^opele55 (§)orroW. 

BY J. G. WHITTIER. 

fLAS for him who never sees 
The stars shine through his cypress- 
"^ trees ! 

Who, hopeless, lays his dead away, 
Nor looks to see the breaking day 
Across the mournful marbles play ; 
Who hath not learned in hours of faith. 
The truth — to flesh and sense unknown — 
That life is ever lord of death, 
And love can never lose its own. 



TO THE BEREAVED. 1 7 

The Empty ©rs^dle. 

c^N a still and quiet chamber 
^A There 's an empty cradle-bed, 
^ With a print upon the pillow 
Of a baby's shining head. 
'T is a fair and dainty cradle — 

Downy, soft, the pillow white — 
But within the blankets folded, 
Lies no little form to-night. 

Once the mother sat beside it 

When the day was growing dim. 
And her pleasant voice was singing, 

Soft and low, a cradle-hymn ; 
Now there 's no more need of singing 

When the evening shadows creep, 
For the cradle-bed is empty, 

And the baby gone to sleep. 

Little head that used to nestle 

In the pillows white and soft ; 
Little hands whose restless fingers 

Folded there in dreams so oft ; 
Lips we pressed with fondest kisses, 

Eyes we praised for purest ray, — 
Underneath the churchyard daisies 

They have hid you all away ! 



1 8 A MOTHER'S OFFERING 

Ah ! the empty, useless cradle ! 

We will put it out of sight, 
Lest our hearts should grieve too sorely 

For the little one to-night. 
We will think how, safe forever 

In the better fold above, 
That young lamb for which we sorrow 

Resteth now in Jesus' love. 

On a ©Url of (^\(M<y V{^\v, 

'^S IS but a curl of soft brown hair — 
S A simple, common thing to see — 
^ But you, who only call it fair, 
Dream not of what it is to me. 

You take it in your hands, and praise 
Its glossy smoothness o'er and o'er ; 

But O ! to 3^ou it pictures not 

The childish face it shades no more. 

You smile to see how goldenly 

Its hue, like sunlight, meets the eye ; 

But O ! through tears I only see 
The brow whereon it used to lie, — 

The temples fair it clustered round. 

The loving eyes it often hid. 
Those fair, cold temples, blossom crowned, 

Resting beneath the coffin-lid. 



TO THE BEREAVED. 1 9 

The childish voice, so sadly sweet; 

The lisped words, to love so plain ; 
The echoing sound of childish feet. 

At sight of this, come back again. 

O ! gather up the shining links, 
And lay them softly, gently by, 

And place them where they may not meet 
The careless gaze of every eye. 

So silently, so mournfully. 

They speak of what the grave has won ! 
The idol of a loving heart — 

The early called — the only one. " r." 



©omfort. 

" ,MN Father's house where mansions be," 

<^ There must be little tripping feet. 
^ What joy to fancy once again 

Long absent little ones w^e 11 meet ! 
So pause we by our wayside inn ; 

To Him we do our all confide — 
The kindly Heart that loves us all. 

We know our loved ones are inside 
The fold ; so blest are they ; and we 

Who know the homeward path so well. 
The kindly light we ever see 

To cross the torrent or the dell, 

To Father's house, where all is well. 

F. H. D. 



20 A MOTHER'S OFFERING 

Only a tSflkby'^ ©raVe. 

fNIyY a baby's grave ! 
Some foot or two, at most, 
Of star-daisied sod; yet I think that 
God 
Knows what that little grave cost. 

Only a baby's grave ! 

To children even, so small 
That they sit there and sing, so small a 
thing 

Seems scarcely a grave at all. 

Only a baby's grave ! 

Strange how we moan and fret 
For a little face, that was here such a space; 

O, more strange could we forget ! 

Only a baby's gave ! 

Did we measure grief by this, 
Few tears were shed on our baby dead — 

I know how they fell on this. 

Only a baby's grave ! 

Will the little life be much 
Too small a gem for His diadem. 

Whose kingdom is made of such? 

Only a baby's grave ! 

Yet often we come and sit 
By the little stone, and thank God to own 

We are nearer to Him for it. 



TO THE BEREAVED, 21 



The Baby. 

" ^HE is a little hindering thing," 
H The mother said ; 

<^ *' I do not have an hour of peace, 
Till she 's in bed. 
She clings unto my hand or gown, 

And follows me 
About the house, from room to room, 
Talks constantly. 

She is a bundle full of nerves 

And willful ways; 
She does not sleep full sound at nights ; 

Scarce any, days. 
She does not like to hear the wind. 

The dark she fears ; 
And piteously she calls for me 

To wipe her tears. 

She is a little hindering thing," 

The mother said ; 
" But still she is my wine of life, 

My daily bread. 
The children — what a load of care 

Their coming brings ! 
But O the grief, when God doth stoop 

To give them wings !" 



22 A mother's offering 

BY WHITTIER. 

t^S a cloud of the sunset slow melting in 
^^ heaven, 

As a star that is lost when daylight is 
given, 
As a glad dream of slumber which wakens 

in bliss, 
She hath passed to the world of the holy 
from this. 

In Whittier's description of the household and 
the loss of a darling child are passages of exqui- 
site pathos, that touch the heart of every mother 
who has felt that 

" Sense of loss in aU created things— 
In flower that blooms and bird that sings." 

PON the motley braided mat 

S Our youngest and our dearest sat, 
•S I^ifting her large, sweet, asking eyes, 

Now bathed within the fadeless green 
And holy peace of Paradise. 

O, looking from some heavenl}^ hill, 
Or from the shade of saintly palms, 
Or silver reach of river calms, 

Do those large eyes behold me still? 

With me one little year ago ; 



TO THE BEREAVED. 23 

The chill weight of the winter snow 

For months upon her grave has lain ; 
And now, when summer south winds blow, 

And brier and harebell bloom again, 
I tread the pleasant paths we trod — 
I see the violet-sprinkled sod 
Whereon she leaned, too frail and weak 
The hillside flowers she loved to seek, 
Yet following me, where'er I went, 
With dark eyes full of love's content. 

The birds are glad ; the brier-rose fills 

The air with sweetness; all the hills 

Stretch green to June's unclouded sky ; 

But still I wait with ear and eye 

For something go7ie which should be nigh ; 

A loss in all familiar things — 

In flower that blooms and bird that sings. 

And yet, dear heart, remembering thee. 

Am I not richer than of old ? 
Safe in thy immortality. 

What change can reach the wealth I hold? 

What chance can mar the pearl and gold 
Thy love hath left in trust for me ? 

And while in life's late afternoon, 

Where cool and long the shadows grow, 

I walk to meet the night that soon 
Shall shape and shadow overflow, 



24 A mother's offering 

I can not feel that thou art far, 
Since near at need the angels are : 
And when the sunset gates unbar 

Shall I not see thee, waiting stand, 
And, white against the evening star, 

The welcome of thy beckoning hand ? 

f\ ^Unbeam and (a (Sh^^^^W. 

fHEAR a shout of merriment, 
A laughing boy I see ; 
Two little feet the carpet press 
And bring the child to me. 

Two little arms are round my neck, 
Two feet upon my knee ; 

How fall the kisses on my cheek, 
How sweet they are to me ! 

That merry shout no more I hear- 
No laughing child I see ; 

No little arms around my neck. 
No feet upon my knee ! 

No kisses drop upon my cheek, 
Those lips are sealed to me ; 

Dear Lord, how could I give him up 
To any but to Thee ? 



TO THE BEREAVED. 25 

©t|rt5ttna5 In ^^e(^^^^en. 

ViHAT is he doing in heaven to-day — 
The darling I buried a year ago? 
I laid my beautiful treasure away 
Out of my arms, in December's snow. 
The wind from the north blew sharp and 
cold; 
The flakes fell white on the coffin-lid; 
They said he was wearing a crown of gold : 
I thought of the curls in darkness hid. 

Out of the mist of that terrible pain 

I watched while they covered my lovely 
dead; 
Stunned and deafened in heart and brain, 
How far, far off seemed the words they 
said! 
With tender look and gentle tone, 

They spoke of the land beyond the sky, 
And whispered, God had but claimed his 
own. 
He was miney and not his^ was my soul's 
reply. 

Dear, patient Savior, who long ago 
Didst bear with thy servant's unbelief, 

Thy love is unchanged to-day, I know, — 
Forgive the thoughts of that passionate 
grief! 



26 A MOTHER'S OFFERING 

I feel it was best that thy hand should lead 
My little white lamb to the heavenly 
shore ; 

O blessed Shepherd ! thy flock doth feed 
In pastures that bloom for evermore. 

And so, on these days of the closing year, 

I can think in peace of the child I love ! 
Perhaps, when the Christmas time draws 
near. 

They keep the feast in the home above : 
Perhaps the angel who led the song — 

The sweet new song which the shep- 
herds heard — 
Sings it again to the baby throng, 

Repeats the dear story, word for word. 

Or, perhaps the Magi who saw the star, 
Tell how it brightened their lonely 
way ; 
In mystic beauty it gleamed from afar — 
The morning star of the Lord's own 
day. 
And Mary may take up the story then. 
And tell how they knelt in the stable 
straw 
When the Light of the world and the Hope 
of men 
As a little child in her arms they saw. 



TO THE BEREAVED. 27 

Or, better than these, does the Savior take 
The babes to his bosom, and talk to 
them 
Of how he loves them, and how, for their 
sake, 
He came to the manger in Bethlehem? 
Perhaps they look up, and their happy 
eyes. 
With loving wonder behold the grace — 
The light of the Infinite Sacrifice — 

Shine down from our Master's most 
blessed face. 

Perhaps, perhaps — but at least I am sure 
That my child is at home with the saints 
in light ; 
Only the gentle, the good, and the pure 
Are talking with him this Christmas 
night. 
And so I give thanks, though my eyes are 
filled 
With such tears as my darling will never 
shed; 
I know it is as our Father willed — 

With Him I leave him, my precious 
dead. 



28 A mother's offering 

In rs^eworiatn. 

ANOTHER little form asleep, 
And a little spirit gone ; 
Another little voice is hushed, 
And a little angel born. 
Two little feet have gone the way 
To the home beyond the skies, 
And our hearts are like the void that comes 
When a strain of music dies. 

A pair of little baby shoes, 

And a lock of golden hair, 
The toy our little darling loved, 

And the dress he used to v/ear; 
The little grave in the shady nook 

Where the flowers love to grow ; 
And these are all of the little hope 

That came three years ago. 

The birds sit on the branch above. 

And sing a requiem 
To the beautiful little sleeping form 

That used to sing to them ; 
But never again will the little lips 

To their songs of love reply. 
For that silvery voice is blended with 

The minstrelsy on high. 



TO THE BEREAVED, 2g 



©on^olai'xon. 

BY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 

fOMMUNION in spirit?" Forgive me, 
But I, who am earthy and weak 
Would give all my income from 
dreamland 
For her roseleaf palm on my cheek. 

There 's a little shoe in the corner, 
So worn and wrinkled and brown ; 

Its motionless hollow confutes you. 
And argues your wisdom down. 

" Immortal !" I know it and feel it ; 

Who doubts it of such as she? 
But that is the pang's very secret — 

Immortal — away from me ! 

There 's a little ridge in the graveyard. 
Would scarce stay a child in his race ; 

But to me and my thought it is wider 
Than the star-sown vague of space. 

Console, if you will — I can bear it — 
'T is a well-meant alms of breath ; 

But not all the preaching since Adam 
Has made death other than death. 



30 A MOTHER'S OFFERING 



f MOTHER, look ! I 've found a but- 
terfly 
Hanging upon a leaf — do tell me why 
There was no butter. O, do see its wings! 
I never saw such pretty things, 
All streaked and striped with blue and 

brown and gold. 
Where is its house when all the days are 

cold?" 
**Yes, yes!" she said, in absent accents 

mild — 

" I 'm hurried, child !" 

" Last night my dolly quite forgot her 

prayers, 
An' when she thought you had gone down 

the stairs, 
An' dolly was afraid, an' so I said : 
* Just do n't you mind, but say them in the 

bed. 
Because I think that God is just as near.' 
When dolls are 'fraid do you s'pose he can 

hear?" 

The mother spoke from out the ruffles 

piled — 

*' I 'm hurried, child!" 



TO THE BEREAVED. %1 

" O come and see the flowers in the sky 
The sun has left ; and won't you, by and by, 
Dear mamma, take me in your arms and 

tell 
Me all about the pussy in the well ? 
Then tell me of the babies in the wood? 
An' then perhaps, about Red Riding 

Hood?" 
"Too much to do — hush, hush; you drive 

me wild, — 

I 'm hurried, child!" 

The little one grew very quiet now. 

And grieved and puzzled was the childish 

brow ; 
And then it queried, " Mother, do you know 
The reason 'cause you must be hurried so ? 
I guess the hours are littler than I ; 
So I will take my pennies, and will buy 
A bigger clock ! O, big as it can be, 
For you and me !" 

The mother now has leisure infinite. 

She sits with folded hands, and face as 

white 
As winter. In her heart is winter's chill. 
She sits in leisure, questioning of God's 

will — 



32 A MOTHER'S OFFERING 

" My child has ceased to breathe, and all is 

night. 
Is heaven so dark that thou didst grudge 

my light? 
O life ! O God ! I must discover why 

Time moves so slowly by." 

O mother sweet, if cares must ever fall, 
Pray do not make them stones to build a 

wall 
Between thee and thy own, and miss thy 

right 
To blessedness, so swift to take its flight ! 
While answering baby questionings you 

are 
But entertaining angels unaware. 
The richest gifts are gathered by the way 
For darkest day. 

LHtle ©raVe^. 

fT 'S only a little grave," they said— 
" Only just a child that 's dead ;" 
And so they carelessly turned away 
From the mound the spade had made that 

day. 
Ah ! they did not know how deep a shade 
That little grave in our home had made. 



TO THE BEREAVED. 33 

I know the coffin was narrow and small — 
One yard would have served for an ample 

pall; 
And one man in his arms could have borne 

away 
The rosewood and its freight of clay ; 
But I know that darling hopes were hid 
Beneath that little coffin-lid. 

I know that a mother stood that day 
With folded hands by that form of clay ; 
I know that burning tears were hid 
" 'Neath the drooping lash and aching lid ;" 
And I know her lip and cheek and brow 
Were almost as white as her baby's now. 
I know that some things were hid away — 
The crimson frock and wrappings gay, 
The little sock and half-worn shoe, 
The cap with its plumes and tassels blue, 
And the empty crib with its covers spread, 
As white as the face of the sinless dead. 

'Tis a little grave ; but O, have care ! 
For word-wide hopes are buried there. 
And ye, perhaps in coming years, 
May see, like her, through blinding tears, 
How much of light, how much of joy. 
Is buried up with an only boy ! 
3 



34 ^ mother's offering 



BY M. B. BLAKE, 



fHAD ! That is the word 
That rings through my brain till it 
crazes ! 
Dead, while the May-flowers bud and blow, 
While the green creeps over the white of 

the snow, 
While the wild woods ring with the song 
of the bird, 
And the fields are a-bloom with daisies. 

See! Even the clod 
Thrills, with life's glad passion shaken ; 
The vagabond weeds with their vagrant 

train 
Laugh in the sun and weep in the rain, 
The blue sky smiles like the eye of God 
Only my dead do not waken. 

Dead! There is the word 
That I sit in the darkness and ponder ! 
Why should the river, the sky, and the sea. 
Babble of summer and joy to me, 
While a strong, true heart, with its pulse 
unstirred, 
Lies hushed in the silence yonder? 



^ 



TO THE BEREAVED. 35 

Lord ! lyord ! how long 
Ere we rise to thy height supernal? 
Ere the soul may read what thy Spirit saith : 
"Life that must fade is not life, but death. 
Lift up thine eyes, O soul ! Be strong; 
For death is the life eternal !" 

Tired rs^otl|er5. 

LITTLE elbow leans upon your 
knee — 
Your tired knee, that has so much 
to bear — 
A child's dear eyes are looking lovingly 
From underneath a thatch of tangled 
hair. 
Perhaps you do not heed the velvet touch 
Of warm, moist fingers holding yours so 
tight. 
You do not prize the blessing overmuch; 
You almost are too tired to pray to-night. 

But it is blessedness ! A year ago 
I did not see it as I do to-day ; 

We are all so dull and thankless, and too 
slow 
To catch the sunshine till it slips away. 



2,6 A mother's offering 

And now it seems surpassing strange to me 
That while I wore the badge of mother- 
hood 
I did not kiss more oft and tenderly 

The little child that brought me only 
good. 

And if, some night, when you sit down to 

rest, 
You miss the elbow on your tired knee — 
This restless curly head from off your 

breast. 
This lisping tongue that chatters con- 
stantly ; 
If from your own the dimpled hands had 
slipped. 
And ne'er would nestle in your palm 
again, 
If the white feet into the grave had tripped, 
I could not blame you for your heart- 
ache then. 

I wonder that some mothers ever fret 

At little children clinging to their gown ; 
Or that the footprints, when the days are 
wet. 
Are ever black enough to make them 
frown. 



TO THE BEREAVED. 37 

If I could find a little muddy boot, 

Or cap, or jacket, on my chamber floor ; 

If I could kiss a rosy, restless foot 

And hear it patter in my house once more; 

If I could mend a broken cart to-day, 

To-morrow make a kite to reach the sky, 
There is no woman in God's world could say 

She was more blissfully content than I ! 
But ah! the dainty pillow next my own 

Is never rumpled by a shining head ! 
My singing birdling from its nest has flown. 

The little boy I used to kiss is — dead ! 



'^fvjri/t5?Si«*i' 



^feOD bless the little feet that can never 
9> S^ astray, 

^ For the little shoes are empty in my 
closet laid away! 
Sometimes I take one in my hand, forget- 
ting till I see 
It is a little half-worn shoe, not large 

enough for me ; 
And all at once I feel a sense of bitter loss 

and pain, 
As sharp as when, two years ago, it cut 
my heart in twain. 



38 A mother's offering 

little feet that wearied not, I wait for 

them no more, 
For I am drifting on the tide, but they 

have reached the shore; 
And, while the blinding teardrops wet 

these little shoes so old, 

1 try to think my darlings' feet are tread- 

ing streets of gold. 
And so I lay them down again, but always 

turn to say, 
God bless the little feet that ?iow so surely 

can not stray. 

And while I thus am standing, I almost 

seem to see 
Two little forms beside me, just as they 

used to be ! 
Two little faces lifted with their sweet and 

tender eyes — 
Ah, me ! I might have known that look 

was born of paradise. 
I reach my arms out fondly, but they clasp 

the empty air! 
There is nothing of my darlings but the 

shoes they used to wear. 
O, the bitterness of parting can not be 

done away 
Till I meet my darlings walking where 

their feet can never stray; 



TO THE BEREAVED. 39 

When I no more am drifted upon the surg- 
ing tide, 

But with them safely landed upon the river 
side. 

Be patient, heart ! while waiting to see 
their shining way, 

For the little feet in the golden street can 
never go astray. 

©o^by Looking Out for M^- 

fWO little busy hands patting on the 
window ; 
"= Two laughing, bright eyes looking 
out at me ; 
Two rosy-red cheeks dented with a dimple, 
Mother-bird is coming — baby do you see ? 

Down by the lilac-bush something white 

and azure 

Saw I in the window, as I passed the tree : 

Well I knew the apron and shoulder-knots 

of ribbon 

All belonged to baby, looking out for me. 

Talking low and tenderly 
To myself, as mothers will, 

Spake I softly, " God in heaven 
Keep my darling free from ill. 



40 A mother's offering 

Worldly gain and worldly honors 
Ask I not for her from thee ; 

But from want and sin and sorrow 
Keep her ever pure and free." 



Two little waxen hands, 

Folded soft and silently; 
Two little curtained eyes, 

Looking out no more for me ; 
Two little snowy cheeks, 

Dimple-dented never more ; 
Two little trodden shoes, 

That will never touch the floor : 
Shoulder ribbon softly twisted, 

Apron folded clean and white ; 
These are left me — and these only 

Of the childish presence bright. 

Thus He sent an answer to my earnest 
praying, 
Thus he keeps my darling free from 
earthly stain. 
Thus he folds the pet lamb safe from 
earthly straying; 
But I miss her sadly by the window-pane, 
Till I look above it ; then with purer vision, 
Sad, I weep no longer the lilac-bush to 
pass. 



TO THE BEREAVED. 41 

For I see her angel, pure and white and 
sinless, 
Walking with the harpers on the sea of 
glass. 

Two little snowy wings 

Softly flutter to fro, 
Two tiny childish hands 

Beckon still to me below; 
Two tender angel eyes 

Watch me ever earnestly 
Through the loopholes of the stars : 

Baby 's looking out for me. 

MV tBad Little Soy. 

MAMIE L. HAMMEL. 

ilD you ever see him, my bad little boy, 
"^^ Down on the sands by the sea ? 
^ That is his picture — my boy's own 
self— 
With his big eyes smiling at me ! 
With his hands in his pockets, his hat 
awry, 
And his face all covered with tan : 
O, he was a bad little boy — my boy, 
Who never will be a man ! 



42 A MOTHER'S OFFERING 

He kept me busy from morn till night ; 

I lived in a Babel of noise ; 
He would romp and plaj^ in the roughest 
way, 

After the fashion of boys. 
He spilled my ink, and he broke my pen, 

I had never a chance to write. 
Till the mystical music of winds and waves 

Had lulled him to sleep at night. 

But once in a while he would come and lay 

His curly head on my knee, 
And watch the sun-king going down 

To his kingdom under the sea; 
And talk in his odd little way of things 

Too deep for my duller ken, 
After the fashion of some little boys — 

Boys who will never be men. 

Alas and alas ! for my bad little boy ! 

It happened one summer day 
That the light went out of the tired eyes, 

And the little feet lagged on the way ; 
And just as the sun was going down 

To his kingdom under the sea, 
The angels came for my bad little boy, 

And took him away from me. 



TO THE BEREAVED. 43 

There is quiet now when I want to write, 

There is never a toy on the floor ; 
Nobody teases the cross old cat, 

Nobody pounds on the door. 
Nobody loses or breaks my pens, 

Nobody spills my ink ; 
I have plenty of time to read and work, 

I have too much time to think. 

And I think, as I sit here alone to-night. 

In the shadowy silence and gloom, 
I would give the wealth of the world to see 

My bad little boy in the room — 
To hear the rollicking ring of his laugh, 

To see him amongst his toys. 
Or playing at leap-frog over the chairs, 

After the fashion of boys. 

I would give the world — for I miss him 
so — 

To have him with me again ! 
My boy who has entered the silent ranks 

Of the boys who will never be men ; 
And I think if an angel looked down to see, 

His song would lose some of its joy; 
For all that was dearest in life to me 

Is gone with my little bad boy. 

Carthage, Ohio. 



44 A mother's offering 

The F^N^orHe ®V^l<^- 

BY THE AUTHOR OF "A WOMAN'S POEMS." 

iHICH of five snowdrops would the 



moon 
Think whitest, if the moon could 
see? 
Which of five rosebuds flushed with June 

Were reddest to the mother-tree ? 
Which of five birds that play one tune 
On their soft shining throats, may be 
Chief singer ? Who will answer me ? 

Would not the moon know, if around 
One snowdrop any shadow lay ? 

Would not the rosetree, if the ground 
Should let one blossom drop a day ? 

Does not the one bird take a sound 
Into the cloud when caught away 
Finer than all the sounds that stay ? 

O, little quiet boy of mine. 

Whose yellow head lies languid here — 
Poor yellow head — its restless shine 

Brightened the butterflies last year ! 
Whose pretty hands may intertwine 

With paler hands, unseen but near, 

You are my favorite now, I fear ! 



TO THE BEREAVED. 45 



■pe^po^'^ Letter. 

I WAS sitting in my study, 
1 Writing letters, when I heard : 
§^ " Please, dear mamma, Mary told me, 
Mamma must n't be 'isturbed. 

But I 's tired of the kitty ; 

Want some ozzer fing to do. 
W'iting letters, is 'ou, mamma? 

Tan't I w'ite a letter too?" 

"Not now, darling; mamma's busy. 
Run and play with kitty, now." 

" No, no, mamma ! Me w'ite letter- 
Tan I, if 'ou will show me how?" 

I would paint my darling's portrait, 
As his sweet eyes searched my face 

Hair of gold, and eyes of azure ; 
Form of childish, witching grace. 

But the eager face was clouded, 
As I slowly shook my head, 

Till I said, '' I '11 make a letter 
Of you, darling boy, instead." 

So I parted back the tresses 

From his forehead high and white, 

And a stamp in sport I pasted 
'Mid its waves of golden light. 



46 A mother's offering 

Then I said, "Now, little letter, 
Go away, and bear good news." 

And I smiled, as down the staircase 
Clattered loud the little shoes. 

I^eaving me, the darling hurried 
Down to Mary in his glee: 

" Mamma 's w'iting lots of letters; 
I 'se a letter, Mary — see !" 

No one heard the little prattler 

As once more he climbed the stair, 

Reached his little cap and tippet, 
Standing on the entry chair. 

No one heard the front door open ; 

No one saw the golden hair 
As it floated o'er his shoulders 

In the crisp October air. 

Down the street the baby hastened, 
Till he reached the office door: 

" I 'se a letter, Mr. Postman ; 
Is there room for any more? 

'Cause dis letter's doin' to papa; 

Papa lives with God, 'ou know ; 
Mamma sent me for a letter; 

Does 'ou fink 'at I tan go?" 



TO THE BEREAVED 47 

But the clerk in wonder answered, 
" Not to-day, my little man." 

" D'en I '11 find anozer office; 
'Cause I must do if I tan." 

Fain the clerk would have detained him; 

But the pleading face was gone. 
And the little feet were hastening— 

By the busy crowd swept on. 

Suddenly the crowd was parted : 
People fled to left and right, 

As a pair of maddened horses 
At the moment dashed in sight. 

No one saw the baby figure. 
No one saw the golden hair, 

Till a voice of frightened sweetness 
Rang out on the autumn air. 

'T was too late — a moment only 
Stood the beauteous vision there ; 

Then the little face lay lifeless. 
Covered o'er with golden hair. 

Reverently they raised my darling, 
Brushed away the curls of gold ; 

Saw the stamp upon the forehead. 
Growing now so icy cold. 



48 A mother's offering 

Not a mark the face disfigured, 
Showing where a hoof had trod ; 

But the little life was ended — 
"Papa's letter" was with God. 

©ear Little l^fl^nd^. 

BY MRS. W. C. BELL. 
cXTV 

(^^EAR little hands ! I love them so, 

And now they are lying under the 
snow. 

Under the snow, so cold and white, 
And I can not see or touch them to-night. 
They are quiet and still at last. Ah me ! 
How busy and restless they used to be ! 
But now they can never reach up through 

the snow ; 
Dear little hands ! I love them so ! 

Dear little hands ! I miss them so ! 
All through the day wherever I go ; 
All through the night, how lonely it seems. 
For no little hands wake me out of my 

dreams, 
I miss them through all the weary hours ; 
I miss them as others miss sunshine and 

flowers ; 
Day-time or night-time, wherever I go, 
Dear little hands ! I miss them so ! 



TO THE BEREAVED. 49 

Dear little hands ! They have gone from 

me now ; 
Never again will they rest on my brow ; 
Never again smooth my sorrowful face ; 
Never clasp mine in their childish em- 
brace ; 
And my forehead grows wrinkled and aged 

with care 
Thinking of little hands once resting there ; 
But I know in a happier heavenlier clime, 
Dear little hands, I shall clasp you in mine. 

Dear little hands ! When the Master shall 

call, 
I '11 welcome the summons that comes to 

us all. 
When my feet touch the waters, so dark and 

so cold, 
And I catch my first glimpse of the city of 

gold. 
If I keep my eyes fixed on the heavenly 

gate. 
Over the tide, where the white-robed ones 

wait. 
Shall I know you, I wonder, among the 

bright bands? 
Will you beckon me over, O dear little 

hands ? 
4 



50 A mother's offering 



Mv <^k\\^> 



BY JOHN PIERPONT. 

M CAN not make him dead ! 

<^ His fair, sunshiny head 
^ Is ever bounding round my study chair ; 
Yet when my eyes, now dim 
With tears, I turn to him, 

The vision vanishes — he is not there ! 

I walk my parlor floor, 

And through the open door 
I hear a footfall on the chamber-stair. 

I 'm stepping toward the hall 

To give the boy a call, 
And then bethink me that — he is not there. 

I thread the crowded street ; 

A satcheled lad I meet. 
With the same beaming eye and golden hair; 

And, as he 's running by, 

Follow him with my eye, 
Scarcely believing that — he is not there. 

I know his face is hid 

Under the cofSn-lid ; 
Closed are his eyes, cold is his forehead fair ; 

My hand that marble felt, 

O'er it in prayer I knelt ; 
Yet my heart whispers that — he is not there. 



TO THE BEREAVED. 51 

I can not make him dead : 

When passing by the bed 
So long watched over with parental care, 

My spirit and my eye 

Seek him inquiringly 
Before the thought comes that — he is not 
there. 

When at the cool gray break 
Of day, from sleep I wake, 

With my first breathing of the morning air 
My soul goes up with joy 
To Him who gave my boy. 

Then comes the sad thought that — he is 
not there. 

When at the day's calm close 

Before we seek repose, 
I 'm with his mother, offering up our prayer. 

Whate'er I may be saying, 

I am in spirit praying 
For our boy's spirit, though — he is not there. 

Not there ! Where then is he? 

The form I used to see 
Was but the raiment that he used to wear ; 

The grave, that now doth press 

Upon that cast-off dress. 
Is but his wardrobe lock'd — he is not there. 



52 A mother's offering 

He lives ! in all the past 

He lives ; nor to the last 
Of seeing him again will I despair. 

In dreams I see him now, 

And on his angel brow 
I see it written, " Thou shalt see me there." 

Yes, we all live to God ! 

Father, thy chastening rod 
So help us, thine afflicted ones, to bear, 

That in the spirit land, 

Meeting at thy right hand, 
'Twill be our heaven to find that — ^he is 
there. 

To WE^ARY hearts, to mourning homes, 
God's meekest angel gently comes; 
No power has he to banish pain. 
Or give us back our lost again ; 
And yet, in tenderest love, our dear 
And heavenly Father sends him here. 
Angel of patience ! sent to calm 
Our feverish brows with cooling balm ; 
To 'lay the storm of hope and fear, 
And reconcile life's smile and tear, — 
He walks with thee, that angel kind, 
And gently whispers : "Be resigned; 
Bear up, bear on ; the end shall tell ; 
The dear I,ord ordereth all things well !'* 



TO THE BEREAVED. 53 



The Liitle iSoy K\<^\. ©led. 

BY JOSHUA D. ROBINSON. 

fAM all alone in my chamber now, 
And the midnight hour is near; 
And the fagot's crack and the clock's 
dull tick 
Are the only sounds I hear; 
And over my soul, in its solitude. 
Sweet feelings of sadness glide ; 
For my heart and my eyes are full when I 
think 
Of the little boy that died. 

I went one night to my father's house — 

Went home to the dear ones all; 
And softly I opened the garden gate, 

And softly the door of the hall. 
My mother came out to meet her son : 

She kissed me, and then she sighed ; 
And her head fell on my neck, and she 
wept 

For the little boy that died. 

And when I gazed on his innocent face. 

As still and cold he lay, 
And thought what a lovely child he had 
been. 

And how soon he must decay, 



54 A mother's offering 

" O death, thou lovest the beautiful !" 
In the woe of my spirit I cried ; 

For sparkled the eyes, and the forehead was 
fair. 
Of the little boy that died. 

Again I will go to my father's house — 

Go home to the dear ones all — 
And sadly I '11 open the garden gate, 

And sadly the door of the hall. 
I shall meet my mother, but nevermore 

With her darling by her side; 
But she '11 kiss me, and sigh, and w^eep 
again 

For the little boy that died. 

I shall miss him when the flowers come 

In the garden where he played; 
I shall miss him more by the fireside 

When the flowers have all decayed. 
I shall see his toys and his empty chair 

And the horse he used to ride. 
And they will speak with a silent speech 

Of the little boy that died. 

I shall see his little sister again. 

With her playmates about the door; 

And I '11 watch the children in their sport 
As I never did before; 



TO THE BEREAVED. 55 

And if in the group I see a child 
That 's dimpled and laughing-eyed, 

I '11 look to see if it may not be 
The little boy that died. 

We shall go home to our Father's house — 

To our Father's house in the skies, 
Where the hope of our souls shall have no 
blight, 

And our love no broken ties. 
We shall roam on the banks of the river 
of peace. 

And bathe in its blissful tide, 
And one of the joys of our heaven shall be 

The little boy that died. 

And therefore, when I am sitting alone, 

And the midnight hour is near. 
When the fagot's crack and the clock's 
dull tick 

Are the only sounds I hear, 
O, sweet o'er my soul in its solitude 

Are the feelings of sadness that glide, 
Though my heart and my eyes are full, 
when I think 

Of the little boy that died. 



56 A mother's offering 

Lmle Boy Blue. 

BY EUGENE FIELD. 

fHK little toy dog is covered with dust, 
But sturdy and stanch he stands ; 
And the little toy soldier is red with rust, 
And his musket molds in his hands. 
Time was when the little toy dog was new. 

And the soldier was passing fair ; 
And that was the time when our lyittle Boy 
Blue 
Kissed them, and put them there. 

"Now, don't go till I come," he said, 

''And don't you make any noise !" 
So toddling off to his trundle-bed. 

He dreamt of the pretty toys ; 
And as he was dreaming, an angel song 

Awakened our lyittle Boy Blue : 
O, the years are many, the years are long; 

But the little toy friends are true ! 

Aye, faithful to Little Boy Blue they stand. 

Bach in the same old place. 
Awaiting the touch of a little hand, 

The smile of a little face ; 
And they wonder, as waiting the long years 
through. 

In the dust of that little chair, 
What has become of our Little Boy Blue, 

Since he kissed them, and put them there. 



TO THE BEREAVED. 57 

©one to Hi5 kittle Boy BlUe. 

[Written by N. A. Jennings upon reading of the death of 
Eugene Field.] 

f?HB lyittle Boy Blue, who wandered afar 
' At sound of the angel's song, 
^ Stands still by the beautiful gates ajar, 
While around him the children throng. 
There 's a smile upon the little boy's face, 

As waiting for papa, he stands, 
And welcomes him there with a baby grace, 
And holds out his little hands. 

Like the little toy dog, all covered with dust, 

Who keeps his vigil so true; 
And the little toy soldier, all red with rust, — 

So has waited the I^ittle Boy Blue. 
He has wondered why papa has staid away 

From where all is pure and bright; 
For he wanted him so, to join in his play, 

In the beautiful land of light. 

Ah, deep in the hearts of world-weary men 

Is the tale of the Little Boy Blue ; 
And gentle tears come to their tired eyes 
when 

They think of the toys so true. 
As the little boy went at the angel's call, 

In his dreams at the end of day, 
So the Master, who loved the little ones all, 

Has gone to his own, far away. 



58 A mother's offering 

<' .^lOME day," we say, and turn our eyes 
© Toward the fair hills of Paradise. 

Some day, sometime, a sweet, new rest 
Shall blossom, flower-like, in each breast. 

Sometime, some day, our eyes shall see 
The faces kept in memory. 

Some da}^ their hands shall clasp our hands 
Just over in the Morning Lands. 

Some da}^ our ears shall hear the song 
Of triumph over sin and wrong. 

Some day, sometime ; but O, not yet, — 
But we will wait, and not forget 

That some day all these things shall be, 
And rest be given to you and me. 

So wait, my friend; though years move 

slow. 
The happy time will come, w^e know. 



'CirS.«D-<SS.«C' 



"AbidK, m^^ child, where thou art blest ; 

I with our friends will onward fare. 

And when God wills, shall find thee there." 



TO THE BEREAVED, 59 

The Empty ©rib. 

BY LIZZIE C. HARDY. 

fv» LiTTlvE crib stands empty by my bed, 
^^ Its downy pillows bear the impress 

still, 
Where only yesterday a baby head, 

With tangled curls, pressed close the 
dainty frill. 

And only yesterday a baby mouth, 

With warm, red lips, against my own 
was pressed. 
And like a bird flown from the far-off 
South, 
A tired baby nestled to my breast. 

I hold within my hand a sunny curl. 
Clipped from the mass of shining golden 
hair ; 
The angels won from me my baby girl, 
But will they love her as I loved her, 
there ? 

The little crib is empty, and I miss 

The cooing voice and clinging baby 
hands. 
And life is empty, yet I well know this — 
The angels loved her, and God under- 
stands. 



6o A mother's offering 

To G\n Infant in l*^e(a\?en. 

f^HOU bright and star-like spirit ! 
' That in my visions wild 
I see 'mid heaven's seraphic host, 
O canst thou be my child? 

My grief is quenched in wonder, 
And pride arrests my sighs, 

A branch from this unworthy stock 
Now blossoms in the skies. 

Our hopes of thee were lofty. 
But have we cause to grieve ? 

O, could our fondest, proudest wish 
A nobler fate conceive ? 

The little weeper, tearless. 
The sinner snatched from sin, 

The babe to more than manhood grown 
K er childhood did begin. 

And I, thy earthly teacher, 

Would blush thy powers to see ; 

Thou art to me a parent now. 
And I a child to thee. 

Thy brain so uninstructed 

While in this lowly state, 
Now threads the mazy tract of spheres, 

Or reads the book of fate. 



TO THE BEREAVED. 6 1 

Thine eyes, so curbed in vision, 
Now range the realm of space. 

Look down upon the rolling stars, 
lyook up to God's own face. 

Thy little hand so helpless, 

That scarce its toys could hold, 

Now clasps its mate in holy praise, 
Or plays a harp of gold. 

Thy feeble feet unsteady, 

That tottered as they trod. 
With angels walk the heavenly path. 

Or stand before their God. 

Nor is thy tongue less skillful 

Before the throne divine ; 
'T is pleading for a mother's weal 

As once she prayed for thine. 

What bliss is born of sorrow ! 

'T is never sent in vain — 
The heavenly Surgeon maims to save. 

He gives no useless pain. 

Our God, to call us homeward, 

His only Son sent down. 
And now, still more to tempt our hearts, 

Has taken up our own. 



62 A mother's offering 



My N^i^hbop. 

BY LIZZIE C. ATWOOD. 

f^HREE times have I envied my neigh- 
bor, 
^ My neighbor over the way : 
Once, when she came in her beauty 
Home on her wedding day ; 

Once, when the proud, happy father 

Carefully muffled the bell, 
And joyfully sent me the message, 

" Mother and child are well." 

Again I envied my neighbor. 

Though my heart fairly ached with its 
pain. 
As they carried a little white coffin 

Out into the soft summer rain. 

For I thought as I sat at my window 

Alone in my desolate hall, 
" It 's much better to love and to lose 

Than never to love at all." 

And I, who have gone through life lonely, 

Forever so lonely must be ; 
For I know very well that in heaven 

There is nobody waiting for me. 



TO THE BEREAVED. 63 

While she, though her hair may be snowy 
Before she lies down to her rest, 

Vv^ill at last have her dear little baby 
To lie like a dove on her breast. 

tSeyfey LoUl^e. 

M'M in love with you, Baby Louise! 
^^ With your silken hair and soft blue 
eyes. 

And the dreamy wisdom that in them lies, 
And the faint sweet smile you brought 
from the skies, 
God's sunshine, Baby Louise. 

When you fold your hands. Baby Louise — 
Your hands like a fairy's, so tiny and fair, 
With a pretty, innocent, saint-like air. 
Are you trying to think of some angel- 
taught prayer 

You learned above. Baby Louise? 

I 'm in love with you, Baby Louise ! 
Why, you never raise your beautiful head ! 
Some day, little one, your cheek will grow 

red 
With a flush of delight, to hear the words 
said, 
" I love you," Baby Louise ! 



64 A mother's offering 

Do you hear me, Baby Louise? 
I have sung your praises for nearly an hour ; 
And your lashes keep drooping lower and 

lower ; 
And you 've gone to sleep like a weary 
flower, 
Ungrateful Baby I^ouise! 



BY MARY E. BRADLEY. 



J^ 



% 



SAT at work one summer day, 

It was breezy August weather, 
And my little boy ran in from his play, 
With a bright-red prince's-feather. 
" Make me a cocked-hat, mother dear," 

He cried, "and put this in it. 
Dick and Charlie are coming here, 
And I want it don^ in a minute !" 

It was but one little boy I had. 

And I dearly loved to please him ; 
When such a trifle would make him glad. 

Be sure I did not tease him. 
I dropped my work with a merry heart, 

And Willie and I together — 
We made the cocked-hat gay and smart, 

With its plume of prince's-feather. 



TO THE BEREAVED. 65 

I set it firm on his bonny head, 

Where the yellow curls were dancing; 
I kissed his cheeks that were rosy red, 

And his mouth where smiles were 
glancing. 
Then off he ran, the beautiful boy ! 

My eager eyes ran after, 
And my heart brimmed over with lov- 
ing joy 

At the ring of his happy laughter. 

Back to their work my fingers flew : 

I was sewing a frock for Willie — 
A little white frock, with a band of blue. 

That would make him look like a lily. 
For he was fair as a flower, with eyes 

Of the real heavenly color : 
They were like the blue of the August 
skies, 

And only the least bit duller. 

I never guessed, when he ran from me, 

With his laugh outringing cheerly, 
That it was the last time I should see 

Those blue eyes, loved so dearly. 
I sat at my work, and I sang aloud 

From a glad heart overflowing, 
Nor ever dreamed it was Willie's shroud 

That I was so busy sewing. 
5 



66 A MOTHER'S OFFERING 

I folded the frock away complete, 

And I had no thought of sorrow ; 
But only that Willie would look so sweet 

When I dressed him in it to-morrow. 
And down to the garden-gate I ran — 

For I thought I heard them drumming — 
To see if, perhaps, my little man. 

And Charlie and Dick were coming. 

Some one spoke as I reached the gate 

(It was Charlie's grown-up brother), 
"Wait!" he said in a whisper, "wait! 

We must break it to his mother!" 
^^ Break it — what?" My ears were quick, 

And I shrieked out wild and shrilly : 
"What is the matter with Charlie and 
Dick? 

What have you done with my Willie?" 

The boys shrank frightened away at that. 

And huddled closer together; 
But one of them showed me the little 
cocked-hat, 

With the wilted prince's-feather ! 
"What does this mean? Is Willie dead?" 

He began to tremble and shiver : 
" We were skipping stones," with a gasp he 

said, 
"And Willie— fell in the river!" 



TO THE BEREAVED. 67 

I asked no more. They brought him home : 

My Willie ! My little Willie ! 
His curls all tangled and wet with foam, 

His white face set so stilly. 
I combed the curls, though my eyes were 
dim, 

And my heart was sick with sorrow ; 
And the little frock I made for him — 

He wore, indeed, on the morrow. 

Somewhere, carefully laid away. 

Through summer and winter weather, 
I keep the hat he wore that day. 

And the bit of prince's-feather. 
It is only dust that was once a flower ; 

But there never will bloom another. 
In sun or shower, that will have such 
power 

To wring the heart of his mother. 

A scuivPTOR set to work, with care, 
And chiseled a form of grace, 

A figure divinely fair, 

With a tender, beautiful face. 

But the blows were hard and fast. 

That brought from the marble that 
work at last. 



68 A MOTHER'S OFFERING 

lylTTlvE dreaming, such as mothers 
know ; 

^ A little lingering over dainty things ; 
A happy heart, wherein hope, all aglow. 
Stirs like a bird at dawn that wakes and 
sings — 

And that is all. 

A little clasping to her yearning breast; 

A little musing over future years ; 
A heart that prays, " Dear Lord, thou 
knowest best, 
But spare my flower life's bitterest rain 
of tears " — 

And that is all. 

A little spirit speeding through the night ; 

A little home grown lonely, dark, and 

chill; 

A sad heart, groping blindly for the light ; 

A little snow-clad grave beneath the hill — 

And that is all. 

A little gathering of life's broken thread ; 

A little patience keeping back the tears; 

A heart that sings, "Thy darling is not dead, 

God keeps her safe through his eternal 

years " — 

And that is all. 



TO THE BEREAVED. 69 

One Vear A^o. 

^NH year ago, a shining head 



^ Was pillowed oft upon your breast ; 
^ And summer sun shine round you shed, 
Though snows above your roof-trees 
pressed. 
One year ago, two tiny feet 

Went dancing round from room to room, 
With music to your ears most sweet, 
And gave no echo of the tomb. 

One year ago, two sweet, red lips 

Breathed kisses soft as summer air ; 
And dainty, waxen finger-tips 

Toyed playfully among your hair. 
One year ago, a bird-like voice 

Broke sweetly o'er your quiet dreams ; 
And eyes, that bade your heart rejoice, 

Flashed out, like stars on woodland 
streams. 

One year ago ! You sit to-night 

In tears that never cease to fall ; 
A tiny form, so still and white ; 

The coffin and the funeral pall ; 
A narrow, little mound of earth, 

Where wintry storms have heaped their 
snow; 
Dark, silent rooms ; a quiet hearth, — 

How different from a year ago ! 



70 A mother's offering 

A little heap of wintry sod, 

And she, your darling, sleeping there ; 
What wonder if your cries to God 

Have more of dark distrust than prayer ! 
What wonder when your eyes are dim, 

And hearts all wrung and sore with pain. 
You turn with pleading voice to him, 

And ask your darling back again ! 

O homes made desolate below ! 

O hearts soon robbed of those we love ! 
Yet from our hearts and homes they go, 

But to enrich the realms above. 
One year ago, how far away 

Seemed heaven, e'en in your brightest 
dreams ! 
But now, that she is there to-day, 

How very near and true it seems ! 

May He, upon whose loving breast 

Is pillowed now her shining head, 
Give to your troubled spirits rest. 

And make you glad and comforted ! 
Though you may walk through years of 
night 

The paths her feet so swift have trod. 
They '11 end, like hers, in fadeless light, 

Upon the shining hills of God. 



TO THE BEREAVED, 7 1 

Our preddie'5 ©rG\Ve. 



BY MAMMA. 



•UNBEAMS linger here awhile, 

B) On this little grassy mound ; 

^ For 'tis here our Freddie lies, 

Sleeping in the cold, damp ground. 

Gone the sunshine of our home ; 

Hushed the sound of little feet, 
And the voice that to my ear 

Always seemed like music sweet. 

How we miss the little face. 

Crowned with wealth of sunny hair, 
And soft eyes of heaven's blue, 

And a smile so sweet and rare ! 

Would we wish our darling back? 

No ! he 's safe with Jesus now ; 
Happy with the angels there, 

Where he '11 never sorrow know. 

Soon, O soon, we '11 go to him. 
When our work on earth is o'er; 

Go to meet him in that world 
Where sad parting is no more. 

Gone, thou loved one, yet not lost; 

O no, he surely waits us, where 
Such gentle spirits sooner go 

Than those less good and fair. 



72 A MOTHER'S OFFERING 

We are still battling with the storm, 
But he has gained the shore, 

And though we miss our darling boy. 
Faith whispers, " Gone before'' 

/\r>piV€\l — "©epartUre — l^eUnion. 

BY REV. SYLVESTER WEEKS. 

|W0 little sets of fingers, 
Holding fast to mine ; 
Two little eyes of azure, 
In mildest radiance shine. 

Two little ears for hearing 

Every slightest breath; 
The darlingest little mouth, 

With the dimpled chin beneath. 

One broad little chest, 

Which the quiet breathings swell; 
Two of the tiniest feet. 

That we love to see so well. 

One little soul immortal 

To guard and train and teach ; 

With the blessing of God upon us, 
To lead beyond sorrow's reach. 



TO THE BEREAVED. 73 

We thank Thee, O our Father, 

For this great mercy given; 
And with earnest prayerful teaching 

We will train this child for heaven. 



Seven bright years of gladness, 

Seven fleet years of joy ; 
And then a home of sadness, 

At the parting with our boy. 

And the prayer our hearts had cherished. 
That " Freddie" might live in heaven. 

Was sooner answered by Jesus 

Than the time our hearts had given. 

Away from our tears of sorrow. 

Up to the radiant throne, 
Our trusting hearts are turning 

To one of the white-robed — our own. 

We thank thee, O our Father, 

For this new mercy given ; 
The mysteries are unveiling. 

Where " Freddie " lives — is heaven, 

" Wbi.1. done of God, to halve the lot 
And give her all the sweetness ; 
To us, the empty room and cot, 

To her, the Heaven's completeness." 



74 -4 mother's offering 

f '0-DAY we cut the fragrant sod 
With trembling hands asunder, 
And lay this well-beloved of God, 
Our dear, dead baby, under. 
O hearts that ache, and ache afresh ! 

O tears too blindly raining! 
Our hearts are weak, yet being flesh. 
Too strong for our restraining. 

Sleep, darling, sleep ! Cold rains shall steep 

Thy little turf-made dwelling. 
TJiou wilt not know, so far below, 

What winds or storms are swelling ; 
The birds shall sing in the warm spring, 

And flowers bloom about thee; 
Thou wilt not heed them, love ; but O 

The loneliness without thee ! 

Father, we will be comforted ; 

Thou wast the Gracious Giver; 
We yield her up, not dead ! not dead ! 

To dwell with thee forever. 
Take thou our child — ours for a day ; 

Thine while the ages blossom. 
This little shining head we lay 

In the Redeemer's bosom ! 



TO THE BEREAVED. 75 



fWAY to and fro, in the twilight gray, 
This is the ferry of Shadowtown ; 
It always sails at the end of day, 
Just as the darkness is closing down. 

Rest, little head, on my shoulder so, 
A sleepy kiss is the only fare : 

Drifting away from the world we go. 
Baby and I, in the rocking-chair. 

See, where the firelogs glow and spark. 
Glitter the lights of Shadowland ! 

The winter rain on the window — hark ! — 
Are ripples, lapping up its strand. 

There, where the mirror is gleaming dim, 
A lake lies shimmering, cool and still ; 

Blossoms are waving over its brim. 
Those over there, on the window-sill. 

Rock slow, more slow in the dusky light, 
Silently lower the anchor down — 

Dear little passenger, say " Good-night," 
We 've reached the harbor of Shadow- 
town. 



76 A mother's offering 

Only Q. Lock of V\<^\v. 

fNLY a day, and yet how long a story ! 
Only a dream, and yet return it will ; 
Only a curl from out the auburn glory 
That crowned her head, now slumbering 
so still. 

A little life, and yet it led to heaven — 
The home that longer ones may never win; 

She had no wanderings to be fogiven 
Before the golden door could let her in. 

Only a sunbeam, for a moment tinting; 

Only a rainbow in a frowning sky ; 
And gone so soon, yet on our memories 

printing 
Those soft, sad images that can not die. 

Onl}^ a little bird, to sing and perish; 

Only a little heart, to beat with love ; 
Only a lock of hair, to fondly cherish, 

But one fair angel more to welcome us 
above ! 

"One of us darling, it must be; 
It may be, you will slip from me ; 
My little life may first be done ; 
I 'm glad we do not know 
Which one.' 



i 



TO THE BEREAVED. 77 

Too Smooth* too Wht^:e. 
MOTHERS whose children are sleep- 
ing, 
Thank God by their pillows to-night, 
And pray for the mothers now weeping 

O'er pillows too smooth and too white, 
Where bright little heads oft have lain, 

And soft little cheeks have been pressed. 
O mothers who know not this pain. 
Take courage to bear all the rest ! 

For the somber-winged angel is going 

With pitiless flight o'er the land. 
And we wake in the morn, never knowing. 

What he, ere the night, may demand. 
Yes, to-night,while our darlingsare sleeping, 

There 's many a soft little bed 
Whose pillows are moistened with weeping 

For the loss of one little head. 

There are hearts on whose innermost altar 

There is nothing but ashes to-night ; 
There are voices whose tones sadly falter. 

And dim eyes that shrink from the light. 
O mothers whose children are sleeping. 

As ye bend to caress the fair heads, 
Pray, pray for the mothers now weeping 

O'er pitiful smooth little beds. 



78 A mother's offering 



Only a <^\irl. 



BY MRS. BROWNING. 

■^RIENDS, of faces unknown, and 



c^^ land 

^ Unvisited over the sea, 
Who tell me how lonely you stand 
With a single gold curl in the hand, 
Held up to be looked at by me. 

While you ask me to ponder and say 

What a father and mother can do 
With the bright yellow locks put away 
Out of reach, beyond kiss in the clay. 
Where the violets press nearer than you. 

Shall I speak like a poet, or run 
Into weak woman's tears for relief? 

O children ! I never lost one 

Yet, my arms round my own little son, 
And love knows the secret of grief. 

And I feel what it must be, and is. 
When God draws a new angel so 

Through the house of a man, up to his. 

With a murmur of music you miss, 
And a rapture of light you forego. 



TO THE BEREAVED. 79 

How you think, staring on at the door 

Where the face of your angel flashed in, 
That its brightness, familiar before, 
Burns off from you ever the more, 
For the dark of your sorrow and sin, 

" God lent him and takes him," you sigh; 

Nay, there let me break with your pain ; 
God 's generous in giving, say I, 
And the thing which he gives, I deny 

That he ever can take back again. 

He gives what he gives, I appeal 

To all who bear babes, in the hour 
When the veil of the body we feel 
Rent round us, while torments reveal 
The motherhood's advent in power. 

And the babe cries ; has each of us known 

By apocalypse (God being there 
Full in nature) the child is our own 
lyife of life, love of love, moan of moan. 
Through all changes, all times, every- 
where ? 

He 's ours, and forever. Believe, 
O father! O mother! look back 
To the first love's assurance. To give 
Means, with God, not to tempt or deceive 
With a cup thrust in Benjamin's sack. 



So A mother's offering 

He gives what he gives. Be content! 

He resumes nothing given, be sure! 
God lend? Where the usurers lent 
In his temple, indignant he went 

And scourged away all those impure. 

He lends not, but gives to the end, 

As he loves to the end. If it seems 
That he draws back a gift, comprehend 
'T is to add to it, rather — amend, 
And finish it up to your dream. 

Or keep, as a mother may, toys 

Too costly, though given by herself, 
Till the room shall be stiller from noise, 
And the children more fit for such joys, 
Kept over their heads on the shelf. 

So look up, friends ! you, who indeed 

"Have possessed in your house a sweet piece 
Of the heaven which men strive for, must 

need 
Be more earnest than others are — speed 
Where they loiter, persist where they 
cease. 

You know how one angel smiles there ; 

Then courage ! 'T is easy for you 
To be drawn by a single gold hair 
Of that curl, from earth's storm and depair 

To the safe place above us, — Adieu ! 



TO THE BEREAVED. 8 1 



Only ^eVett year5 Old Wl^en ^I^e 
©ied. 

'^NlyY seven years old when she died} 
Surely the angels must love her 



dearly ! 
Bright golden-haired and violet-eyed, 

None could e'er look on her face severely ! 
There are children as many as the flowers, 
But never was one more sweet than ours, 
The latest bud on an aged tree, 
Where never blossom again may be. 
Once I held up my head with the best, 
Crowned with three flowers of promise 
bright ; 
Two — two of the fairest — Death tore from 
my breast, 
Five years ago, in the self-same night. 
She was the only one left to me. 
And I prayed with groans of agony 
That burst from my heart, a mingled 

prayer 
Of hope and doubting and black despair, 
That He that who wisely, whatever betide. 
Would be willing to leave her aye by my 
side, 
6 



82 A MOTHER S OFFERING 

Still blessing her richly with increase of 

days. 
It may be He heard me — but ah ! his ways 
Are not as ours — from the heavenly place 
Perhaps she lighteneth our life with 

grace. 

Only seven years old when she died ! 

Yet the hopes of two lifetimes died with 
her! 
We have not a wish in the world so wide 
Save that we had gone out on the tide 
with her ! 
The tide that has borne them all away, 
Sibyl and Avis, now little May ; 
-The ebb that never knows turn or flow, 
However the full moons come or go ! 
But I would not murmur — no complaint 
Breaks from the lips, asleep or awake. 
Of the mother who bore them, making a 
feint 
Of being content for my love's sake. 
But sometimes her hand clings to her 

heart, 
And at certain hours she sits apart ; 
And the golden light of sunset skies 
Brings a far-off look into her eyes ; 



TO THE BEREAVED. 83 

And I fear me much that her treasure in 
heaven 

Her heart from its earth-hold has almost 
riven 

And soon, hearing the voice of her chil- 
dren three, 

She, too, will drift out to that unknown 
sea — 

"The sea of glass " for her it should be — 

God help me ! what then will become of 
me? 

Only seven years old when she died ! 

How our old hearts took young delight 
in her. 
Our only pleasure, our hope, our pride ! 

Well ! He who made her had the most 
right in her ! 
We took her from him thanksgivingly ; 
We gave her back — no, not willingly, 
But not with repining — God forbid ! 
Yet I think he pardons that we did 
Falter awhile and fail in our praise, 

Missing the key to which it was set 
For a sweet child-treble in happier days. 

The old tune haunts the memory yet. 
And we scarce can read, for tears, the page 
Of blessings left to our altered age. 



84 A mother's offering 

Our "lines" once "fallen in pleasant 
places," 

Blankly stare in our darkened faces, 

And our harps on the willows of grief 
hang low ; 

But God, omniscient, has known what we 
know. 

Once the harpings of heaven ceased sud- 
denly. 

And his heart was thrilled by a bitter 
cry — 

The cry of his Son's last agony : 

He knows what we felt when we saw her 
die. 

Only seven years old when she died ! 
Passed from the earth ere she learned its 
history ! 
Now she stands up with the glorified, 

Fully as wise in the heavenly mystery 
As they who through great tribulation 
Fought their way up from every nation, 
Leavened the world with their life-blood 

warm. 
Carried the kingdom of God by storm. 
Sometimes still they talk of their story — 
How they suffered and conquered and 
died; 



TO THE BEREAVED. 85 

Cleft a path on through the cloud to the 
glory ; 
She stands listening, wondering-eyed. 
Naught she knew of toil or endeavor — 
Mother's arms were around her ever; 
Little of sorrow, doubt, or despair, 
Half she questions her right to be there — 
She who has nothing either suffered or 

done ; 
Till, suddenly smiling, she looks to the 

Son, 
And folding her pretty hands reverently, 
Lisps out her child-creed most confi- 
dently — 
The same she learned at her mother's 

knee — 
"He said, 'Let the little ones come to 
me.' " 

Only seven years old when she died ! 

Seventy long years, yea, and more years 
still, 
We have clambered and clung to the side : 

She stands even now at the top of the 
hill. 
Bright in the beams of the morning light ! 
Ours, at the best, is a starry night. 
We toil on through the dust and the heat, 
She sitteth calm at the Master's feet, 



86 A MOTHER'S OFFERING 

Reading the truth of his lovelit face, 

Answering him back glad smile for smile. 
We tremblingl}^ shriek out for grace — 

"lyord, more grace!" 
Dreading to meet his look all the while, 
So spotted our souls, and moiled with sin. 
She shows stainless without and within — 
A snow-white soul in a robe like snow. 
Weary and w^ayworn and sad we go, 
Sorely doubting if, after our course be run, 
Our life-lasting journey well-battled and 

done, 
When the Judge stands up the awards to 

divide. 
We shall be worthy to stand by her side, 
Whose sword was ne'er fleshed, whose 

strength was ne'er tried — 
Who was only seven years old when she 

died! 

" GriEVK not so much for some one who 
has died, 
That over thy neglect the living weep, 
lyove well the ones that linger at thy 
side. 
How multiplied thy sorrows, should they 
sleep." 



TO THE BEREAVED. 87 

We M^55 H^^ SVcrywI^ere. 



TO MRS. S. E. R. 

BY LITTLE HOME BODY. 



I lylTTlvE form came lovingly 
j^ Into our arms one day, 
^ And we prayed the Heavenly Giver 

To always let her stay ; 
But a crown in heaven was waiting, 

For a jewel rich and rare, 
And we missed our earthly treasure, 
Missed our darling everywhere. 

All around our pleasant dwelling 

Something tells us of her stay, 
And we listen for her prattle, 

As we used to in her play; 
So we miss her, miss the playthings. 

Miss the clothes she used to wear. 
Miss her pattering footsteps coming. 

Miss our baby everywhere. 

Spring and summer, autumn, winter. 

Many times have passed and gone, 
Since the little face was buried 

That we used to look upon ; 
Still we miss her, though another 

Claims our love and tender care. 
And our hearts will ever murmur. 

How we miss her everywhere ! 



88 A MOTHER'S OFFERING 

Grandma's pet and grandpa's darling; 

Mother's jewel, father's joy, — 
All the household love was centered 

In our child, so sweet and coy. 
*' Heavenly Father, listen to us, 

Grant us this, our daily prayer, 
That in yonder far-off mansion, 

We may meet our darling there !" 

■©iVided — United. 

fOR none return from those quiet 
shores, 
Who cross with the boatman cold and 
pale ; 
We hear the dip of the golden oars. 

And catch a gleam of the snowy sail ; 
And lo ! they have passed from our yearn- 
ing hearts. 
They cross the stream and are gone for 
aye. 
We may not sunder the veil apart 

That hides from our vision the gates of 
day; 
We only know that their barks no more 
May sail with us o'er life's stormy sea ; 
Yet somewhere, I know, on the unseen 
shore, 
They watch and beckon and wait for me. 



TO THE BEREAVED. 89 

And I sit and think when the sunset's gold 

Is flushing river and hill and shore, 
I shall one day stand by the water cold, 

And list for the sound of the boatman's 
oar; 
I shall watch for a gleam of the flapping sail, 

I shall hear the boat as it gains the strand, 
I shall pass from sight with the boatman 
pale, 

To the better shore of the spirit land ; 
I shall know the loved who have gone 
before, 

And joyfully sweet will the meeting be, 
When over the river, the peaceful river, 

The angel of death shall carry me. 

CONTRIBUTED BY REV. S. O. ROYAL. 

Y baby sleeps — 
Not cradled on my breast, 
But daisied turf above him pressed. 

My baby sleeps — 
Not rocked to rest in snowy white, 
But curtained close by starry night, 

My baby sleeps — 
Not in churchyard's sullen gloom. 
But lulled to rest in deathless bloom, 

My baby sleeps. 




90 A mother's offering 

/\Tnon^ tl^e /\n^el5. 

\HENEVER I sit in the twilight 

At rest from the toils of the day, 
And the little ones gather about me 
Too weary for laughter or play, 
I think with the longing of sorrow and love 
Of the one little child that 's away, — 

Away from the arms of the mother ; 

And sometimes it grieves me to know 
Content with the love that surrounds him, 
He never will miss us below; 

he looks in the face of the Father 
above, 
And walks with the saints to and fro. 

I love in my fancy to follow 
Their steps by the river so fair, 

And list to the wonderful stories 
The angels are telling him there — 

The beautiful angels of paradise, 
And dear little Silver-hair. 

O Angel of life and of glory ! 

Come, whisper thy message to me, 
When sadly I sit and remember 

The child that has gone from my knee ; 
For I know in the mansions where Jesus 
has gone, 

His little ones surely must be. 



TO THE BEREAVED. 9 1 



The Feet K\qK NJev^ep Stray. 

BY MARY E. C. WYETH. 

?S I mused in the city of the dead, 
One golden summer day, 
"^^ And paused where the gleaming marble 

shone, 
In its luster fair, o'er some favored one 

Of earth's loved and called away ; 
By the rustic pale and the lowly cross. 
By the simple tablet, stained with moss, . 

That had edged it where it lay. 
With a sudden sorrow I traced a name 
On a broken shaft. Ah! what memories 
came 
To shadow the sun-bright day ! 
And I bowed my head with the silent dead, 
And wept — I could not pray. 

Ah ! life so fleet, that thy gift so sweet 

Should be lightly thrown away, 
Thy teachings spurned with a scofiQng frown, 
And thy pleasant sun into night gone 
down, 
Ere yet 't is the close of day. 
I turned where the tender grasses wave 
In quiet peace o'er a baby's grave. 

And low in the grass there lay 
A little cross. How my heart was stirred 



92 A mother's offering 

By the thankful trust of the graven v/ord 
I read from its page that day : 

" The little feet iyi the golden street 
Can never go as tray.'' 

little feet, in the golden street, 
Not for 3^ou I wept that day, 

Though my tears fell fast in the waving grass 
That grew above you — alas ! alas ! 
For griefs that w^e can not stay ! 

1 wept for the wayward wanderer's fate, 
Whose feet strayed far from the narrow 

gate: 
Aye, strayed into sin's broad way. 
God knoweth the torn heart's piteous need, 
His ways are just, though some hearts must 
bleed ; 
And I bless his name alway. 
That the little feet in the golden street 
Can never go astray. 



'QPsai''CirsjB' 



" So I THINK that human lives 
Must know God's chisel keen, 

If the spirit yearns and strives 
For the better life unseen. 

For men are only blocks at best, 

Till the chiseling brings out all the rest. 



TO THE BEREAVED, 93 

Broken pUythtn^^. 

SHADOW fell on our dwelling, 
j^^ Yet the sun was clear in the sky, 

Like some dark spirit foretelling 
The cloud that was hovering nigh. 
All through the sunshine of summer, 

And the misty autumn haze. 
We welcomed a sweet new-comer 
With her winsome looks and ways. 

But when the roses had perished, 

And the winds sighed through leafless 
bowers, 
The one we tenderly cherished 

Took flight with the birds and the 
flowers. 
Alas, for the days so dreary ! 

And the hours so strangely still, 
The longing till hearts are weary, 

For something the void to fill ! 

A picture hangs from the ceiling — 

A fairy with silken hair; 
Eyes the deep spirit revealing; 

One little foot that is bare; 
The sweet, ruby lips are parting, 

And the merry dimples play ; 
Alas ! for our tears are starting. 

Our darling is far away ! 



94 A mother's offering 

We tread the accustomed places, 

But shadows darken our joy, 
As the old familiar faces 

Appear on each shattered toy, — 
The dolls, with their robes all tarnished; 

The empty spools on a string; 
Broken fans that once were garnished 

With many a lustrous thing; 

Meek lambs, with enduring fleeces; 

Shells that in ocean were found; 
Rattles all taken to pieces, 

To see what occasioned the sound; 
Rubber rings, where memory lingers 

On four little teeth of pearl. 
That sometimes shut on our fingers, — 

The weenie, mischievous girl! 

Two little shoes of bright leather. 

Defaced and chewed at the toe; 
For never, in sunniest weather, 

A single step did they go. 
Ah ! through what windings and mazes 

Must those little busy feet stra}^ — 
Through paths all bordered with daisies, 

Or climbing the upland way ? 

Strange are the mysteries hidden 
In the heart's innermost fold, 

Causing the teardrops unbidden, 
When trifles like these we behold. 



TO THE BEREAVED, 95 

Then tenderly gather the treasures, 
Shrine them in casket and urn ; 

They bring remembrance of pleasures 
That perhaps may never return. 

f LOVED them so, 
Then when the Elder Shepherd of the 
fold 
Came, covered with the storm and pale and 

cold, 
And begged for one of my sweet lambs to 
hold, 

I bade him go. 

He claimed the pet — 
A little fondling thing, that to my breast 
Clung always, either in quiet or unrest. 
I thought of all my lambs I loved him 
best ; 

And yet — and yet — 

I laid him down 
In those white shrouded arms, with bitter 

tears ; 
For some voice told me that in after years 
He should know naught of passion, grief, 
or fears, 

As I had known. 



96 A mother's offering 

And yet again 
The Elder Shepherd came ; my heart grew 

faint ; 
He claimed another lamb, with sadder 

plaint — 
Another, she who, gentle as a saint, 
Ne'er gave me pain. 

Aghast I turned away! 
There sat she, lovely as an angel's dream, 
Her golden locks with sunlight all agleam, 
Her holy eyes with heaven in their beam. 

I knelt to pray. 

''Is it Thy will? 
My Father, say, must this pet lamb be 

given ? 
O, Thou hast many such, dear Lord in 

heaven." 
And a soft voice said, "Nobly hast thou 
striven, 

But—' Peace, be still.' " 

O how I wept. 
An claspsed her to my bosom, with a wild 
And yearning love, my lamb, my pleasant 

child ! 
Her, too, I gave. The little angel smiled. 

And slept. 



TO THE BEREAVED. 97 

"Go, go!" I cried, 
For once again that Shepherd laid his hand 
Upon the noblest of our household band; 
Like a pale specter. He took his stand 

Close to his side. 

And yet how wondrous sweet 
The look with which he heard my pas- 
sionate cry, 
"Touch not my lamb; for him, O let me 

die !" 
"A little while," He said, with smile and 
sigh, 

"Again to meet." 

Hopless I fell ; 
And when I rose, the light had burned so 

low, 
So faint, I could not see my darling go ; 
He had not bidden me farewell, but O ! 

I felt farewell 

More deeply far 
Than if my arms had compassed that slight 

frame, 
Though could I but have heard him call 

my name, 
"Dear mother!" But in heaven 'twill be 
the same. 

There burns my star! 



98 A mother's offering 

He will not take 
Another lamb, I thought, for only one 
Of the dear fold is spared, to be my sun, 
My guide, my mourner, when this life is 
done: 

My heart would break. 

O with what thrill 
I heard Him enter; but I did not know 
(For it was dark) that he had robbed 

me so. 
The idol of my soul — he could not go — 

O heart be still ! 

Came morning. Can I tell 
How this poor frame its sorrowful tenant 

kept. 
For waking tears were mine, I sleeping 

wept; 
And days, months, years, that weary vigil 
kept, 

Alas, *' Farewell !" 

How often it is said, 
I sit and think, and wonder, too, some 

time. 
How it will seem when in that happier 

clime 
It never will ring out, like funeral chime, 
Over the dead. 



TO THE BEREAVED. 99 

No tears ! no tears ! 
Will there a day come I shall not weep ? 
For I bedew my pillow in my sleep. 
Yes, yes, thank God ! no grief that clime 
shall keep. 

No weary years. 

Aye ! it is well : 
Well with my lambs and with their earthly 

guide ; 
There pleasant rivers wander they beside, 
Or strike sweet harps upon its silver tide — 
Aye ! it is well. 

Through the dreary day. 
They often come from glorious light to 

me; 
I can not feel their touch, their faces see, 
Yet my souls whispers, they do come to me. 

Heaven is not far away. 



'Qa'H«0''tJ?S.«D' 



"I WOULD not have thee think of me as 
dead, 
But only passed a little out of sight ; 
Nor say through boundless darkness I have 
fled, 
But moved a little nearer to the light." 



loo A mother's offering 

By {^e ^\oT& of {\& l^iVer. 

fHROUGH the gray willows the bleak 
winds are raving 
Here on the shore, with its driftwood 
and sands ; 
Over the river the lilies are growing, 
Bathed in the sunshine of Orient lands ; 
Over the river, the wide, dark river 
Springtime and summer are blooming 
forever. 

Here, all alone, on the rocks I am sitting. 
Sitting and waiting — my comrades all 
gone — 
Shadows of mystery drearily flitting 
Over the surf with its sorrowful moan. 
Over the river, the strange, cold river ! 
Ah ! must I wait for the boatman for- 
ever? 

Wife and children and friends were around 
me, 
Labor and rest were as wings to* my soul ; 
Honor and love were the laurels that 
crowned me ; 
Little I recked how the dark waters roll ; 
But the deep river, the gray, misty river, 
All that I lived for has taken forever ! 



TO THE BEREAVED. lOI 

Silently came a black boat o'er the billows ; 

Stealthily grated the keel on the sand ; 
Rustling footsteps were heard through the 
willows ; 

There the dark boatman stood, waving 
his hand, 

Whisp'ring, " I come o'er the shadowy 
river ; 

She who is dearest must leave thee for- 
ever." 

Suns that were brightest and skies that 

were bluest 

Darkened and paled in the message he 

bore. 

Year after year went the fondest, the truest, 

Following that beckoning hand to the 

shore, 
Down to the river, the cold, grim river. 
Over whose waters they vanished forever. 

Yet not in visions of grief have I wandered ; 
Still have I toiled, though my ardors have 
flown ; 
Labor is manhood, and life is but squan- 
dered 
Dreaming vague dreams of the future 

alone. 
Yet from the tides of the mystical river. 
Voices of spirits are whispering ever. 



I02 A MOTHER'S OFFERING 

Lonely and old, in the dusk I am waiting 
Till the dark boatman, with soft, muffled 
oar. 
Glides o'er the waves, and I hear the keel 
grating, 
See the dim, beckoning hand on the shore, 
Wafting me over the welcoming river 
To gardens and homes that are shining 
forever ! 

^sIap Land. 

t WONDERFUL place is the Land of 

In the kingdom of sleep, so fair ; 
Its ruler "Queen Silence" sits on the 
throne, 
And governs her subjects there. 
And the air is full of marvelous things, 
And wonders that only the dream-fairy 
brings. 

A wonderful land is the Land of Naps 

By the side of a silver sea, 
And over its billows of soft lullabies 

The children glide happily. 
Rocked in "sweet slumber" a safe little 

boat, 
On, on, in fanciful vision they float. 



TO THE BEREAVED. 1 03 

Lifted Over. 

BY HBLEN HUNT JACKSON. 

^S tender mother, guiding baby steps, 
When places come at which the tiny 
"S^ feet 

Would trip, lift up the little one in arms 
Of love, and set them down beyond the 

harm; 
So did our Father watch the precious boy, 
Led o'er the stones by me, who stumbled 

oft 
Myself, but led my darling on. 
He saw the sweet limbs faltering, and saw 
Rough ways before us, where my arms 

would fail, 
So reached from heaven, and lifting the 

dear child, 
Who smiled in leaving me, He put him 

down 
Beyond all hurt, beyond my sight, and bade 
Him wait for me ! Shall I not then be glad, 
And, thanking God, press on to overtake ? 

"Tis sweet, as year by year we lose 
Friends out of sight, in faith to muse 
How growls in Paradise our store?" 



I04 A MOTHER'S OFFERING 

f\ Little "©ead "prince. 

(Buried June i, 1873.) 

BY THE AUTHOR OF "JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN." 

jSvER the happy mother's bed 

^1?^ Gambol three children, loving and 

^ gay,~ 

Earnest, strong, and delicate Fritz, 
Pretty baby Victoria. 

Two little princes, sans sword, sans crown, 
One little princess, infant sweet — 

In the mother's heart as rich and as full 
As any mother's in lane or street — 

They grow, three roses, love-rooted deep. 
Filling with perfume all their own 

The empty air, oft so sharp and keen, 
Of the lonely heights too near a throne. 

The palace windows stood open wide, 
The harmless windows ; and through 
them pass 

May winds, to the palace children dear 
As to cottage babies upon the grass. 

Out through the chamber runs Earnest 
bold; 

The mother follows, with careful mind, 
Fearless of fate, for a minute's space, 

Leaving the other two behind. 



TO THE BEREAVED. 105 

Grand on the bed, like a mimic queen, 

Tiny Victoria gravely sits; 
While clasping closely his darling toy, 

Up to the casement climbs merry Fritz. 

It drops — his treasure! He leans and 
looks 
Twenty feet down to the stony road, 
Hear'st thou that shriek from the moth- 
er's lips? 
Hast thou no mercy, O God, O God? 

One ghastly moment he hangs in air, 
Irike a half-fledged bird from the nest's 
edge thrown. 
With innocent eyes of dumb surprise — 
Then falls — and the brief young life is 
done. 

Mother, poor mother! try to see 

Not the skeleton hand that thrust him 
there 

Out of sunshiny life into silent death. 
But the waiting angels in phalanx fair. 

O try to feel that the earth's hard breast 
Was the bosom of God which took him 
in — 

God, who knows all things to us unknown. 
From sorrow, sickness, peril, or sin. 



Io6 A MOTHER'S OFFERING 

O hear far off the low sound of tears, 
Dropping from many an eye like mine, 

As we look at our living children sweet, 
And our mother-hearts weep blood for 
thine. 

God comfort thee ! Under the robe of state 
That hides, but heals not, wounds throb- 
bing wild — 
Mayest thou feel the touch of one soft, dead 
hand — 
The child that will always remain a child, 

And when the long years shall have slipped 
away, 
And gray hairs come and thy pulse beats 
slow. 
May one little face shine star-like out 
O'er the dim descent thy feet must go ! 

Mother, poor mother ! 'Neath warm June 
rain 
Bear to the grave thy coffin small ; 
Oft children living are children lost ; 
But our children dead — ah, we keep them 
alir 

[The above lines were suggested by the fatal accident 
that befell the young prince, Frederick William, son of 
Prince I^ouis of Hesse, and the Princess Alice, daughter 
of Queen Victoria,— and shows how sorrow comes to the 
aching hearts in homes of royalty as well as to us in hum- 
ble life.] 



TO THE BEREAVED. 1 07 

h]e(aVen. 

HERE the faded flowers shall 
freshen — 
Freshen never more to fade ; 
Where the shaded sky shall brighten — 
Brighten nevermore to shade ; 

Where the sunblaze never scorches; 

Where the starbeams cease to chill; 
Where no tempest stirs the echoes 

Of the wood, or wave or hill ; 

Where no shadows shall bewilder; 

Where life's vain parade is o'er; 
Where the sleep of sin is broken, 

And the dreamer dreams no more; 

Where the bond is never severed — 
Partings, claspings, sob, and moan, 

Midnight waking, twilight weeping. 
Heavy noontide — all are done ; 

Where the child has found its mother ; 

Where the mother finds her child; 
Where dear families are gathered 

That were scattered on the wild ; 

Where the hidden wound is healed ; 

Where the blighted life re-blooms; 
Where the smitten heart the freshness 

Of its buoyant youth resumes ; 



io8 A mother's offering 

Where we find the joy of loving, 

As we never loved before — 
lyoving on unchilled, unhindered, 

Loving on for evermore. 

To iy|^5- ®- ®- '^^^^le5. 

FROM MRS. JOHN HANCOCK. 

fOU have seen them 'mongst their romp- 
ing brothers. 
Baby girls, by many a household 
hearth. 
Sweeping, dusting, brushing, like small 
mothers, 
While around them went the racket and 
the mirth. 

Well, I 'm thinking of your little daughter, 

Whom my earthly eyes have never seen. 

How your hands have vainly reached and 

sought her 

Since the grass upon her grave was 

green ! 

Now, behind the sheltering walls of jasper, 
She is smiling with the angels there. 

With a brother on each side to clasp her, — 
Won so soon from earthly strife and care. 



TO THE BEREAVED. 1 09 

How her happy heart is overflowing 

For those two dear little household 
mates ! 

How her tiny hands are beckoning, showing 
All the joy that on their coming waits ! 

Do the feet of little children patter 
As they tread the shining golden floor, 

Like the gentle, musical, soft clatter 
Of the summer rain against the door? 

With their singing, do they mix the 
laughter 

Which is sweetest music that we know ? 
Do they frolic in the great hereafter, 

Whence no echoes come, no voices flow? 

We shall know, dear, sad, and lonely 
mother : 
Though they come no more, we go to 
them; 
Earthly life we live glides onward to an- 
other. 
Rich with song and palm and diadem. 

We shall find them, though the rushing 
waters 

In the vale of shadows whelm us o'er ; 
We shall greet immortal sons and daughters 

'Mid the splendors of the thither shore. 



no A MOTHER^ S OFFERING 

l^oW an /\n^el Lool<5. 

^^«pOBIN, holding his mother's hand, 
^ Says " Good-night " to the big folk all ; 
^ Laughs with glee through the lighted 
hall; 
Then in his own crib, warm and deep, 
Rob is tucked for a long night's sleep. 

Gentle mother, with fond caress, 

Slips her hand through his soft brown 
hair; 

Thinks of his fortune all unknown, 
Speaks aloud in an earnest prayer : 

" Holy angels, keep watch and ward ! 

God's good angels, my baby guard!" 

'* Mamma, what is an angel like?" 
Asked the boy, in a wondering tone. 

" How will they look if they come here, 
Watching me, while I 'm all alone?" 

Half with shrinking and fear spoke he ; 

Answered the mother tenderly: 

" Prettiest faces ever were known, 
Kindest voices, and sweetest eyes." 

Robin, waiting for nothing more, 

Cried and looked with a pleased sur- 
prise — 

Love and trust in his eyes of blue : 

"I know, mamma! They 're just like you !" 



TO THE BEREAVED. Ill 

Uictor. 

BY W. H. VENABLE. 

fpJliHKN roses yielded up to death 
-^^ Their fragrant souls, and smiled, 

" Then was exhaled the dying breath 

Of him, our flower-like child. 

Ah ! sweeter than the violet frail 

Frost-slain in morn of May, 
And purer than the the snowdrop pale, 

In pallid sleep he lay. 

Did Heaven mock that pride of mine 
Which named him Victor? King? 

O Grave, the vanquishing was thine; 
O Death, we feel thy sting! 

Dead ! Cradled in a coffin ! Why 

This dire untimely doom? 
Why born, thus born so soon to die? 

Answer, thou cruel tomb. 

Pale puny hands, poor little feet, 

By grief caressed in vain. 
Fond baby heart that may not beat 

Against mine own again ; 

If these be sleeping and not dead, 

O whither, then, hath flown 
The helpless infant soul, through dread, 

Vast silences, alone? 



112 A mother's offering 

May not the spirit pine to come 
Where we who know him are? 

His mother's breast is baby's home, 
Not some strange Bden far. 

Our eyes grow numb with tearless woe, 
Prayer swoons upon the tongue 

As to his lips of smiling snow 
Our loving kisses clung. 

The stars are stolid in the sky, 
The saints no message send; 

My lamentation and my cry 
To heedless void ascend. 

My heart, my weeping, bleeding heart 

Wails at the door of fate. 
And faints in darkness and apart, 

Bereft and desolate. 

I only find, where'er I grope, 

A cradle and a pall ; 
Find, at the gloomy verge of hope 

A yearning — that is all. 

An empty cradle and a lone. 

Small mound of chilly sod, 
O'er which I bow with human moan 

To move the heart of God. 



TO THE BEREAVED. I13 



/\fter tl^e pUneral. 

BY EARL CRANSTON. 

jjWND is this home — this awful solitude ? 
^B 'Tis like a vast mute waste; or wil- 

^ derness, 

Where Awe broods o'er the silence and 

evokes 
Despair, and I am lost. Its fastnesses 
Environ me ; and here I sit, as lone 
As if sky-piercing palisades of oaks, 
Ten thousand deep, joined bark to bark, 
Did hold me in this stifling stillness, bound j 
While rocks whose plunging courses far 

outrun 
The deepest plumb of thought, beneath 

me lie. 
And make no overture of Liberty, 
Save through a grave-rift here and there, 

and these 
Hedged in by will Divine, forbidding 'scape 
In disembodiment. 

What means all this, 
That I but yesterday, so free — so free, 
And yet of liberty unconscious — free 
To love, be loved, embrace and be em- 
braced ; 
8 



114 



So free to pour out all my soul in song ; 
To look for sunlight everywhere I roamed, 
And wander where I would find happiness ; 
So free to look into the beaming face 
Of any lovely child, and feel no twinge 
Of something burrowing within my soul — 
To-day, to find myself entombed ? 

And yet, 
These walls that hold and smother me, the 

same 
That then from gaze profane my Paradise 
Shut in ! These fetters, welded in the fires 
That warmed my spirit yesterday with joy ! 
Forged by the heat of Love's last longing 

look. 
Then chilled to hardness by the touch of 

Death ! 

What horrid dream is this ? I '11 rouse 
me. No, 

My will is gone. Dream on then, dreamer ; 
since 

'T is but a dream, why, let it run ; no harm 

K'er comes of dreams, I '11 start up pres- 
ently. 

And laugh at all this horror haunting me. 

Alas ! I can not long deceive my heart. 

It is no dream. This, this is home — or was ; 

But O ! despoiled, dismantled, desolate ! 



TO THE BEREAVED. 1 15 

And yet, how strange ! These are the walls 

intact ; 
The ornaments, the pictures, everything is 

here; 
The birds — but where their song ? ah, they 

mistake 
This gloom for nightfall ; or the loneliness 
Oppresses them, and chokes their voices 

down. 
Do they know? Do they miss him too? 

Sweet birds, 
I love your sadness better than your song. 
Hushed is the silvery voice whose ringing 

glee 
Was signal for your loudest choruses ; 
Ne'er will disturb you more the wooing 

hand 
Whose fond caress you always shyly 

shunned, 
But whose forgiveness ever sweetly sang 
Before your trembling hearts were still. 

Sad now, 
That you denied his loving touch? Too 

late! 

And here is Rover ; is he mourning too ? 
Come, fellow ! I would see your sad brown 

eyes. 
Yes, rest your head upon my lonely knee. 



Il6 A MOTHER^ S OFFERING 

Ah ! Rover, would that I had ever been 
As patient with the darling as were you ; 
Content, if he were glad, whate'er his 

whim — 
To send you panting after whirling hoop 
Bestride your back, or pluck your shaggy 

coat — 
And only sad, when he, grown tired of 

play. 
Would stamp his baby-foot and say ^'' go wa'^ 
Could you interpret words, as I your eyes, 
What cheer I might bestow ! I^ist, fellow, 

list! 
His tribute 't was to your obedience ; 
And beautiful it was as innocent ; — 
One glowing day in June, upon the beach 
He lay, and tossed the pebbles gleefully ; 
When suddenly from flying cloud the sun. 
Emerging, shone into his upturned eye. 
Quick rose, with kingly gesture, dimpled 

arm, 
And, like a Joshua, he bade the sun 
^''Go wa'' — ^with mien expecting instant 

truce, 
His reasoning unspoken, yet was plain : 
" If great, black Rover heeds my mandate, 

then 
Why not the great white sun?" 



TO THE BEREAVED. II7 

The angel boy ! 
All ! lie was full of cunning baby ways ; 
Nor nook, nor corner, greets my wandering 

eye. 
Nor path, nor journey of the twelvemonth 

gone. 
Nor month, nor day, nor week, in thought 

returns, 
Unconsecrated by some sweet surprise 
Of wondrous babyhood ; some miracle 
Of beauty, grace, or character evolved; 
A gamut of discovery that lured 
Our hearts to highest notes of ecstasy. 
Each new-found dimple was a well of joy 
That never filled with kisses ; every smile 
Was like an angel's, sweet and radiant ; 
Sun-dipped was every golden hair, and 

thrilled 
Electric every tiny finger's touch. 
His eyes, a sky of blue with heaven inside, 
Brought down before the sun had left his 

couch, 
And saw him vanquished, too, with every 

eve ; 
Then still shone on, with all their count- 
less mates 
In happy homes, until the stars peeped out — 
The waking of the child-host glorified. 



ii8 A mother's offering 

And do the bright child-eyes of earth and 

heaven 
Joint loving sentry hold o'er earthly homes 
The galaxy of earth to watch by day, 
Of heav'n by night ? The little ones below 
To slumber not until the little ones 
Above look out? Then, sure to wake be- 
times, 
Lest for a moment's space, the sacred realm 
Be left unguarded, when the mounting sun 
Compels the sky-relief to seek the shade, 
Th' inviting play-ground, 'neath the Tree 

of Life? 
New glory in the heavens ? Yes — new stars ; 
My two among the brightest you may search. 
Where else for eyes like his ? 

God knows what 's fit. 

fHAVK two little angels waiting for me 
On the beautiful banks of the crystal sea; 
Not impatiently wait my darlings there, 
For smiles light up their brows so fair ; 
And their little harps ring out so clear, 
So soothingly sweet to faith's listening ear, 
And they live in the smile of a Savior's love, 
Who so early called my darlings above. 



TO THE BEREAVED. II9 

I have two little angels waiting for me 
On the beautiful banks of the crystal sea, 
Forever free from sorrow and pain, 
Spotless and pure from all earthly stain ; 
Never in erring paths to rove, 
Safe in the bosom of Infinite I^ove ; 
Evermore, evermore walking in light. 
These beautiful angels robed in white. 

I have two little angels waiting for me 
On the beautiful banks of the crystal sea ; 
When my weary heart is throbbing with 

pain. 
And I fain would clasp my darlings again, 
I '11 look away from this earthly strand 
To the beautiful fields of the ''better 

land;" 
I will think of the angels waiting there, 
And offer to God a thankful prayer. 

I have two little angels to welcome me 
When I, too, shall stand by the crystal sea ; 
When the Great Refiner his image may trace 
In the heart he has won by his saving grace, 
And in robes of Christ's own righteousness 

drest, 
My soul shall seek the home of the blest. 
On the beautiful banks of the crystal sea 
My darling, still waiting, shall welcome me. 



I20 A mother's offering 

©one ©eforc. 

fHERK 'S a beautiful face in the silent 
air, 
Which follows me ever and near, 
With smiling eyes and amber hair, 
With voiceless lips, yet with breath of 
prayer. 
That I feel, but can not hear. 

The dimpled hand and ringlet of gold, 

Ivie low in a marble sleep; 
I stretch my arms for the clasp of old, 
But the empty air is strangely cold, 

And my vigil alone I keep. 

There 's a sinless brow with a radiant 
crown, 
And a cross laid down in the dust ; 
There 's a smile where never a shade comes 

now, 
And tears no more from those dear eyes flow, 
So sweet in their innocent trust. 

Ah well ! and summer is coming again. 

Singing her same old song; 
But O ! it sounds like a sob of pain, 
As it floats in the sunshine and the rain, 

O'er the hearts of the world's great 
throng. 



TO THE BEREAVED, 121 

There 's a beautiful region above the skies, 

And I long to reach its shore; 
For I know I shall find my treasure there : 
The laughing eyes and amber hair 
Of the loved one gone before. 

^afe-polded. 

BY CAROLINE LESLIE. 

fiT is hard when o'er the face 
We scarce can see for weeping — 
The little loving baby face — 

That last still shade comes creeping ; 
Full hard to close the tender eyes 
And fold the hands for sleeping. 

Yet when the w^orld our own would claim, 
It doth not greatly grieve us ; 

We calmly see, as days go by. 
Our little children leave us. 

And, smiling, heed not how the swift. 
Soft-footed years bereave us. 

O mother hearts ! I count you rich 
Beyond mere earth-possessing, 

Whose little babies never grow 
Away from your caressing ; 

Safe-folded in his tender arms 
Who gives again, with blessing. 



122 A mother's offering 

"Philip* MV K^-^i' 

" Who bears upon his baby brow 
The round and top of sovereignty." 

fOOK at me with thy large brown eyes, 
Philip, my king! 
For round thee the purple shadow lies 
Of babyhood's royal dignities, 

I^ay on my neck thy tiny hand, 
With love's invisible scepter laden ; 

I am thine Esther to command 
Till thou shalt find thy queen-handmaiden, 
Philip, my king ! 

O, the day when thou goest wooing, 

Philip, my king! 
When those beautiful lips 'gin suing, 
And some gentle heart's bar undoing. 

Thou dost enter, love-crowned, and there, 
Sittest love-glorified — rule kindly. 

Tenderly over thy kingdom fair ; 
For we that love, ah ! we love so blindly, 
Philip, my king! 

Up from thy sweet mouth, up to thy brow, 

Philip, my king ! 
The spirit that there lies sleeping now 
May rise like a giant, and make men bow 
As to one Heaven-chosen amongst his 
peers. 



TO THE BEREAVED. 1 23 

My Saul, than thy brethren taller and fairer^ 

lyct me behold thee in future years ! 
Yet thy head needeth a circlet rarer, 
Philip, my king ! 

A wreath, not of gold, but palm, one day, 

Philip, my king! 
Thou, too, must tread, as we trod, a way. 
Thorny, and cruel, and cold, and gray; 
Rebels within thee and foes without 
Will snatch at thy crown. But march on, 
glorious. 
Martyr, yet monarch ; till angels shout, 
As thou sittest at the feet of God victo- 
rious, 

'' Philip, the king !" 

Forgotten? No, we never do forget; 
We let the years go, wash them clean with 

tears. 
Leave them to bleach out in the open day, 
Or lock them careful by, like dead friends' 

clothes, 
Till we shall dare unfold them without 

pain ; 
But we forget not, never can forget. 

Dinah Mulock Craik. 



124 ^ mother's offering 

On^ LHtle ©Url. 



BY CALEB DUNN. 



M HAVE a little curl of hair, 
^^ As golden as the sunniest ray ; 
^ No treasure with it can compare — 
Its beauty can not pass away. 

Close to my lips I press the prize — 
It may be weakness so to do — 

But something melting in my eyes 
Is the excuse I offer you. 

This little curl of golden hair 

Speaks to my heart of one who died — 
A blue-eyed boy, as sweet and fair 

As e'er invoked a father's pride. 

One summer's flowers above his bed 
Have sweetly bloomed and gone to rest 

Since last I held his little head 
Against my sad and aching breast. 

Above his sleep the snowy white 
Has softly gathered, like a crown, 

And hidden from my eyes' dim sight 
The winter grass-blades sere and brown ; 

But whether with the roses' red 

Or with the winter's drapery 
His little grave be garlanded, 

It is a lovely spot to me. 



TO THE BEREAVED. 1 25 

There, wlien the shadows of the night 

Arise and drive the day afar, 
I see him, with his crown of light, 

Look down from heaven like a star. 

I see his beauteous smile enshrined 
In bright waves from the starry sea ; 

I hear his sweet voice in the wind 

That murmurs through each blossomed 
tree. 

And well I know that, could he leave 
His home in God's pure realm of bliss, 

He 'd come and round my forehead weave 
The beauty of an angel's kiss. 

You may pronounce my sorrow vain, 
And counsel me with kindest breath; 

But ^o you know a father's pain 

When his firstborn lies cold in death? 

To hear the last tones of a voice, 
The sweetest music to his ear; 

To feel the rarest of all joys — 
The richest gladness — disappear; 

To see the shadows close about 
The brightest ray that ever shone; 

To see the coffin-lid shut out 

The dearest idol he has known, — 



126 A mother's offering 

This is the pain the father feels 
When death has made his hearthstone 
drear, 

When o'er the silent form he kneels 
To weep above his loved one's bier. 

So, surely, you '11 not call me weak 
Because I love this lock of hair — 

This curl which o'er my firstborn son 
Once fluttered in the summer air. 

(^f^all We V^nowi Our |-riend5 in 

BY SARAH T. BOLTON. 

fB can not hear the fall of gentle feet 
Beyond the river they may cross 
no more, 
Nor see familiar faces, angel sweet, 

Through the dim distance, on the other 
shore. 

Where are the friends, companions, down 
the years, 
Who shared our care and labor, gain and 
loss; 
Who wept with us, in sorrow, bitter tears; 
Who knelt beside us at the Savior's 
cross ? 



TO THE BEREAVED. 1 27 

Some were a-weary of the world, and old, 
And some had scarcely passed meridian 
prime ; 

And some were gathered to the blessed fold 
In all the beauty of life's morning time. 

A few had climbed the heights not many 
gain, 
And battled nobly for the good and true ; 
Many wrought humbly on life's common 
plane ; 
But all accomplished what they came 
to do. 

And as we walked together by the way, 
They turned and left us — left us one by 
one. 
Love followed weeping, but they might not 
stay 
For all her pleading, when their work 
was done. 

Shall we not meet again, or soon, or late ? 

Meet at the entrance to the final goal? 
Did the Pale Angel at the shadovv^ gate 

Undo the tie that bound us soul to soul ? 

Nay, by the holy instincts of our love, 
By every hope humanity holds dear, 

I trust in God to meet my treasure-trove, 
Tenderly loving, as we parted here. 



12$ A mother's offering 

It must be so, if deathless mind retain 
The noblest attributes that God has 
given ; 
L^ove, hope, and memory count but little 
gain, 
If what they gain on earth be lost in 
heaven. 

And if the human love, that underlies 
All that is true and good in man's es- 
tate- 
All that remains to us of paradise — 
Were lacking there, heaven would be 
desolate. 

Nay, as the rich man knew on Abraham's 
breast 
The whilom beggar at his palace gate; 
As Saul knew Samuel, when, at God's be- 
hest. 
He came to warn the monarch of his 
fate; 

As Moses and Klias, heavenly bright. 
Were recognized upon the mount sub- 
lime. 
Shall we know our beloved in the light 
That lies beyond the shores of death and 
time. 



TO THE BEREAVED. 1 29 

BY W. C. BENNETT. 

f'^ ^ THOSE little, those little blue shoes ! 
Those shoes that no little feet use ! 
O the price were high 
That those shoes would buy, 
Those little, blue, unused shoes ! 

For they hold the small shape of feet 
That no more their mother's eyes meet ; 

That by God's good will, 

Years since grew still. 
And ceased from their totter so sweet. 

And O, since that baby slept, 

So hushed, how the mother has kept. 

With a tearful pleasure, 

That dear little treasure. 
And o'er them thought and wept ! 

For they mind her evermore 
Of a patter along the floor; 

And blue eyes she sees 

Look up from her knees 
With the look that in life they wore. 

As they lie before her there. 
There babbles from chair to chair, 
A little sweet face 
That 's a gleam in the place. 
With its little gold curls of hair. 



1^6 A mother's offering 

Then, O wonder not that her heart 
From all else would rather part, 

Than those tiny blue shoes 

That no little feet use, 
And whose sight makes such fond tears start. 



/\llce ©ary'^ (i)WeeU5{ "poem. 

|MONG the beautiful pictures 

^^ That hang on Memory's wall 

Is one of a dim old forest. 

That seemeth the best of all ; 
Not for its gnarled oaks olden, 

Dark with the mistletoe ; 
Not for the violets golden 

That sprinkle the vale below; 
Not for the milk-white lilies 

That lean from the fragrant hedge, 
Coquetting all day with the sunbeams, 

And stealing their golden edge ; 
Not for the vines on the upland, 

Where the bright red berries rest, 
Nor the pinks, nor the pale, sweet cowslips. 

It seemeth to me the best. 

I once had a little brother, 

With eyes that were dark and deep ; 
In the lap of that old dim forest. 

He lieth in peace, asleep : 



TO THE BEREAVED. I3I 

Light as the down of the thistle, 

Free as the winds that blow, 
We roved there the beautiful summers — 

The summers of long ago ; 
But his feet on the hills grew weary. 

And, one of the autumn eves, 
I made for my little brother 

A bed of the yellow leaves. 

Sweetly his pale arms folded 

My neck in a meek embrace, 
As the light of immortal beauty 

Silently covered his face ; 
And when the arrows of sunset 

lyodged in the tree-tops bright, 
He fell, in his saint-like beauty, 

Asleep by the gates of light. 
Therefore, of all the pictures 

That hang on Memory's wall, 
The one of the dim old forest 

Seemeth the best of all. 



" Skk, I place in thy hand these lilies, 

Like those the angel brought. 
For the day of annunciation, 

And I have but this one glad thought ; 
Pressing my kisses down on thy death 

sweet face, I say. 
From my heart of hearts, my darling, 

I give thee joy this day." 



132 A MOTHER'S OFFERING 

©Vildren in FjeaVen. 

FROM REV. E. H. BICKERSTETH'S "YESTERDAY, TO-DAY, AND 
FOREVER." 

BABE in glory is a babe forever. 
Perfect as spirits, and able to pour forth 
^ Their glad hearts in the tongues that 
angels use, 
These nurslings, gathered in God's nursery, 
Forever grow in loveliness and love ; 
Growth is the law of all intelligence, 
Yet can not pass the limits which define 
Their being. They have never fought the 

fight, 
Nor borne the heat and burden of the day, 
Nor staggered underneath the weary cross. 

Infancy 
Is one thing, manhood one. And babes, 

though part 
Of the true archetypal house of God 
Built on the heavenly Zion, are not now. 
Nor will be ever, massive rocks, rough hewn, 
Or ponderous corner-stones, or fluted shafts 
Of columns, or far-shadowing pinnacles; 
But rather as the delicate lily-work 
By Hiram wrought for Solomon of old, 
Enwreathed upon the brazen chapiters, 
Or flowers of lilies round the molten sea — 
Innumerable flowers thus bloom and blush 

in heaven. 



TO THE BEREAVED. 1 33 

The one who nestled in my breast had seen 
All of earth's year except the winter 

snows ; 
Spring, summer, autumn, like sweet dreams, 

had smiled 
On her. Eva— or Living — was her name ; 
A bud of life folded in leaves and love ; 
The dewy morning star of summer days ; 
The golden days of fireside happy hours ; 
The little ewe lamb nestling by our side ; 
The dove whose cooing echoed in our 

hearts ; 
The sweetest chord upon our harp of praise ; 
The quiet spring, the rivulet of joy. 

-tsp-jB/'afsai' 

©randf(atl|er'5 "pet. 

felS is the room where she slept 
Only a year ago — 
Quiet, and carefully swept ; 
Blinds and curtains like snow. 
There, by the bed, in the dusty gloom, 
She would kneel, with her tiny clasped 
hands, and pray; 
Here is the little white rose of a room, 
With the fragrance fled away ! 



134 ^ mother's offering 

Nelly, grandfather's pet, 

With her wise little face — 
I seem to hear her yet 
Singing about the place ; 
But the crowds roll on and the streets are 
drear, 
And the world seems hard, with a bitter 
doom, 
And Nelly is singing elsewhere, and here 
Is the little white rose of a room. 

Why, if she stood just there 

As she used to do, 
With her long, light yellow hair 
And her eyes of blue — 
If she stood, I say, at the edge of the bed, 
And ran to my side with a living touch. 
Though I know she is quiet and buried 
and dead^ 
I should not wonder much ; 

For she was so young, you know — 

Only seven years old — 
And she loved me, loved me so ! 
Though I was gray and old. 
And her face was so wise and so sweet to 
see. 
And it still looked living when she lay dead. 
As she used to plead for mother and me 
By the side of that very bed! 



TO THE BEREAVED. 1 35 

I wonder, now, if she 

Knows I am standing here, 
Feeling, wherever she be. 
We hold the place so dear? 
It can not be she sleeps too sound 
In her little nightgown dressed, 
Not to hear my footsteps sound 

In the room where she used to rest. 

I have felt hard fortune's stings, 

And battled in doubt and strife, 
And never thought much of things 
Beyond this human life ; 
But I can not think my darling died 

lyike great strong men, with their prayers 
untrue — 
Nay, rather she sits at God s own side, 
And sings as she used to do . 

Stili. on the lips of all we question, 

The finger of God's silence lies. 
Shall the lost hands in ours be folded? 

Will the shut eyelids ever rise? 
O, friends, no proof beyond this yearning. 

This outreach of our souls we need ; 
God will not mock the hope he giveth ; 

No love he prompts shall vainly plead. 

John G. Whittier. 



136 A mother's offering 

Se.by ti)ead. 

CONTRIBUTED BY REV. S. O. ROYAL. 

two little hands lie folded to rest, 
Folded over a still little breast, 
Still as the wings of a bird on her nest. 

Two little feet will patter no more, 

Never will toddle from table to door. 

All of their wanderings so quickly are o'er ! 

Sweet little eyelids fallen so lightly, 
Hiding the eyes that laughed so brightly, 
Pale little lips just open so slightly. 

Some one's whole joy lies casketed. 
All the bright things are done and said 
Now, of her darling, her baby that 's dead. 

Some pretty toys will be carefully kept. 
And the dear cradle where baby slept, 
Will be an altar where tears oft are wept. 

Worn little shoes will often be kissed ; 
Some sweet voice will often be missed, 
When at night mamma waking, says '* List !" 

For the glad light of the home has fled, 
And all the bright things are done and 

said. 
Now, of baby that 's cofiined and dead ! 



TO THE BEREAVED. 137 

'' ^HE loved and lost !" why do we call 
W them lost ? 

^ Because we miss them from our on- 
ward road? 
God's unseen angel o'er our pathway 

crossed, 
Looked on us all, and loving them the 
most, 
Straightway relieved them from life's 
weary load. 

They are not lost ; they are within the door 
That shuts out loss and every hurtful 
thing — 
With angels bright, and loved ones gone 

before, 
In their Redeemer's presence evermore, 
And God himself their Lord and Judge 
and King. 

And this we call a " loss ;" O selfish sorrow 
Of selfish hearts ! O we of little faith ! 
Let us look round some argument to bor- 
row 
Why w^e in patience should await the mor- 
row 
That surely must succeed this night of 
death. 



138 A MOTHER'S OFFERING 

Aye, look upon this dreary desert plain, 
The thorns and thistles whereso'er we 
turn, 
What trials and what tears, what wrongs 

and wrath, 
What struggles and what strife the jour- 
ney hath ! 
They have escaped from these, and lo ! 
we mourn! 



Ask the poor sailor, when the wreck is 
done. 
Who, with his treasures, strove the shore 
to reach, 
While with the raging waves he battled on, 
Was it not joy, where every joy seemed 
gone, 
To see his loved ones landed on the 
beach ? 



A poor wayfarer, leading by the hand 

A little child, had halted by the well 
To wash from off her feet the clinging 

sand, 
And tell the tired boy of that bright land 
Where, this long journey passed, they 
longed to dwell. 



TO THE BEREAVED. 1 39 

When lo! the I^ord, who many mansions 
had, 
Drew near and looked upon the suffer- 
ing twain, 

Then pitying spake, "Give me the little 
lad; 

In strength renewed, and glorious beauty 
clad, 
I'll bring him with me when I come 
again." 

Did she make answer, selfishly and wrong, 
'' Nay but the woes I feel he, too, must 
share!" 
O, rather, bursting into grateful song, 
She went her way rejoicing, and made 
strong 
To struggle on, since she was freed from 
care. 

We will do likewise; death has made no 
breach 
In love and sympathy, in hope and trust ; 
No outward sign or sound our ears can 

reach, 
But there 's an inward, spiritual speech, 
That greets us still, though mortal 
tongues be dust. 



I40 A MOTHER'S OFFERING 

It bids US do the work that they laid 

down — 
Take up the song where they broke off 

the strain ; 
So journeying till we reach the heavenly 

town, 
Where are laid up our treasures and our 

crown, 
And our lost loved ones will be found 

again. 

I5 it Well With the ©hil^? 

"And she answered, It is well."— 2 Kings iv, 26. 

fKS ! all is well, though from thy longing 
gaze 
The darling of thy heart hath passed 
away ! 
The anxious eye of fond maternal love 
No more shall rest upon his cherub face ; 
No more the joyous laugh, the prattling tones 
Of infant mirth, shall greet thy listening ear ; 
The little lips, so often prest to thine. 
No more in beaming loveliness shall smile ; 
And from the empty crib there comes no 

sound — 
No gentle breathing from the slumbering 

one — 
To tell thy child is there. 



TO THE BEREAVED. I41 

O ! what a sense 
Of anguished loneliness comes o'er the heart 
As oft thine eyes upon the garments fall 
Wrought with such pride for him ! 

Can it be well 
That ne'er again the absent father's arms 
Shall clasp the beauteous boy ; that fancy's 

eye 
Shall trace no more upon his smiling face 
The faint resemblance of the cherished 

dead; 
That the fair picture hope's bright pencil 

drew 
In richest coloring, is washed out in tears? 
Yes ; all is well ! O, lift thine eyes above ! 
What can a mother's fondest wishes ask 
For her lost darling like the bliss of heaven? 
And thou must go to him! May the same robe 
That made him spotless in the sight of 

Heaven — 
The costly robe a dying Savior wrought — 
Be cast around thee too ! and when the ties 
That bind thee now to earth are torn and 

rent, 
May every little voice that mingled here 
In sweet communion round your happy 

hearth, 
Unite to swell the ceaseless choir of heaven ! 

s. w. c. 

Zanesville, 1 841. 



142 A mother's offering 

f'HERE 'S a little drawer in my chamber, 
' Guarded with tenderest care, 
Where the dainty clothes are lying 
That my darling shall never wear. 
And there, while the hours are waning, 

Till the house is all at rest, 
I sit and fancy a baby 

Close to my aching breast. 

My darling's pretty white garments ! 

I wrought them, sitting apart. 
While his mystic life was throbbing 

Under my throbbing heart. 
And often my happy dreaming 

Breaks in a little song, 
Like the murmur of birds at brooding. 

When the days are warm and long. 

I finished the dainty wardrobe, 

And the drawer was almost full 
With robes of the finest muslin, 

And robes of the whitest wool. 
I folded them all together, 

With a rose for every pair. 
Smiling and saying, **Gem fragrant. 

Fit for my prince to wear." 



TO THE BEREAVED. 1 43 

Ah ! the radiant summer morning, 

So full of a mother's joy ! 
" Thank God, he is fair and perfect — 

My beautiful new-born boy!" 
Let him wear the pretty white garments 

I wrought while sitting apart ; 
I<ay him, so sweet and so helpless, 

Here, close to my throbbing heart. 

Many and many an evening, 

I sit, since my baby came, 
Saying, ''What do the angels call him?" 

For he died without a name ; 
Sit, while the hours are waning, 

And the house is all at rest, 
And fancy a baby nestling 

Close to my aching breast. 

And she is gone, sweet human love is gone. 
'T is only when they spring to heaven, that 

angels 
Reveal themselves to you. They sit all day 
Beside you, and lie down at night by you. 
Who care not for their presence ; muse and 

sleep. 
And all at once they leave you, and you 

know them. 

Browning. 



144 ^ mother's offering 

\\o Help. 

BY MRS. S. M. PIATT. 

jfj^iHEN will the flowers grow there? I 
can not tell. 
O, many and many a rain will beat 
there first, 
Stormy and dreary, such as never fell 
Save when the heart was breaking that 
had nursed 
Something most dear a little while, and then 
Murmured at giving God his own again. 

The woods were full of violets, I know; 
And some wild sweetbriers grew so near 
the place — 
Their time is not yet come. Dead leaves 
and snow 
Must cover first the darling little face 
From those wet eyes, forever fixed upon 
Your last still cradle, O most precious one ! 

Is he not with his Father? So I trust. 

Is he not his ? Was he not also mine ? 
His mother's empty arms yearn toward the 
dust. 
Heaven lies too high, the soul is too 
divine. 
I wake at night, and miss him from my 

breast. 
And — human words can never say the rest. 



TO THE BEREAVED, 1 45 

Safe? But out of the world, out of my 

sight ! 
My way to him through utter darkness 

lies. 
I am gone blind with weeping, and the 

light, 
If there be light, is shut inside the skies. 
Think you, to give my bosom back his 

breath, 
I would not kiss him from the peace called 

death? 

And do I want a little angel ? No ; 

I want my baby, with such piteous pain, 
That were this life thrice bitter, O 

I could not choose but take him back 
again ! 
God can not help me, for God can not break 
His own dark law for my poor sorrow's sake. 

Oni,y a little grave, by weeds half hidden, 
Only a mother's tear, that comes unbid- 
den, 
Only two little hands folded together. 
Only two violet eyes, now closed forever, 
Only a pale, pale face, and years but seven. 
Only a lifeless form — all else in heaven. 



146 A MOTHER'S OFFERING 

The Little procK. 

BY SALLIE S, MURRAY. 

fADKD and worn in places, 
Faded and worn and old, 
My tears on it leave their traces, 
As I smooth it out fold upon fold; 
For it beareth a magic power 

The fount of my tears to unlock, 
When I think of the happy hour 
I fashioned that little frock. 

My darling sat beside me, 

With his beautiful ej^es agleam, 
And the joy that was erst denied me 

Seemed into my heart to beam. 
As I thought of the wondrous mercy, 

Of the goodness and the love 
That prompted " Our Father " to send me 

Such an angel down from above. 

My needle flew fast and faster, 

My thoughts took wing as it flew 
To the courts of the blessed Master, 

From whose gates my baby came 
through ; 
And I wondered if all God's angels 

Looked as pure and frail as he — 
If among the shining archangels 

There was any more fair to see. 



TO THE BEREAVED. 1 47 

But there came a pale, sad stranger 

Unto my house one day ; 
My heart stood still, as if danger 

And darkness about me lay. 
I besought him that he would leave me, 

For his touch was chill and strange, 
And he laid his hand on my baby, 

Who straightway seemed to change. 

His pale little cheek grew whiter, 

His bright blue eyes grew dim; 
His clasp on my fingers grew lighter; 

The victory was to him — 
To that pale and icy monarch. 

Who rules with relentless sway; 
Who came to my home in triumph, 

And bore my treasure away. 

But a greater than he remaineth, 

Who hath broken the bands of the 
tomb; 
Who hath robbed King Death of his 
terrors, 

And lighted the pathway of gloom ; 
Who hath promised us sweet consolation, 

If we patiently bow 'neath His rod, — 
And I know he has taken my darling 

To bloom in the garden of God. 



148 A mother's offering 

ALICE WILLIAMS BROTHERTON, 

fNK time an angel in the room 
Made radiant the twilight gloom ; 
** Lo ! I am sent to show to 3^ou 
A vision. Choose what you would view." 

" The one thing which, when I am gone, 
Our Lord shall joy to look upon !" 
"And do you think what that may be?" 
My angel questioned, smilingly. 

"Aye ! The one gift he gave most fair, 
I cherished wuth exceeding care ; 
And wrought in love and tender awe. 
One little song without a flaw." 

" Behold the vision !" And straightway 
My life rolled backward to a day 
When all my soul was thrilled with song, 
And words flowed fast, a glowing throng, — 

Then to my side my little boy, 
Heart-broken o'er some shattered toy, 
Pressed sobbing ; with a pang, to me 
I clasped him, kissed him on my knee. 

" The simple duty close at hand, 
Which here was wrought at love's com- 
mand, 



TO THE BEREAVED. 1 49 

Is your best deed. The song half done 
Is fairer than the perfect one. 

The song — some other soul shall voice 

Better by far. But O, rejoice ! 

The duty, if neglected, you 

Had yearned across the grave to do." 

©omfort in {l]c N«^h*- 

BY JEAN INGELOW. 

fHE thought by heaven's high wall that 
she did stray 
Till she beheld the everlasting gate ; 
And she climbed up to it, to long and wait. 
Feel with her hands (for it was night) and lay 
Her lips to it with kisses ; thus to pray 
That it might open to her, desolate. 
And lo ! it trembled ; lo ! her passionate 
Crying prevailed. A little, little way 
It opened ; there fell out a thread of light, 
And she saw winged wonders move within ; 
Also she heard sweet talking, as they meant 
To comfort her. They said, " Who comes 

to-night 
Shall one day certainly an entrance win." 
Then the gate closed, and she awoke con- 
tent. 



I50 A MOTHER'S OFFERING 

LoVe and ©catl^. 

HJ^iHEN the end comes, and we must say 
•^^ good-bye, 

» And I am going to the quiet land ; 
And sitting in some loved place, hand in 
hand, 
For the last time together, you and I, 
We watch the winds blow, and the sun- 
light lie 
About the spaces of our garden home. 
Soft by the washing of the western foam, 
Where we have lived and loved in days 

past by, — 
We must not weep, my darling, or upbraid 
The quiet Death, who comes to part us 

twain ; 

But know that parting would not be such 

pain 

Had not our love a perfect flower been made ; 

And we shall find it in God's garden laid. 

On that sweet day wherein we meet again. 

"The marble was pure and bright, 

Tho' only a block at best ; 
But the artist, with inward sight, 

Looked farther than all the rest. 
And saw, in the hard, rough stone. 
The loveliest statue the sun shone on." 



TO THE BEREAVED. 151 

BY MRS. F. D. CHAPLIN. 

fADING like a gathered blossom, 
lyying like a lily mown, 
Why and whither hath thy spirit 
From a shrine so lovely flown? 
Is there some celestial harbor 

Where thy bark is safely moored? 
Is my lamb within thy bosom — 
Tell me, tell me, O my Lord? 

If I knew that those blue windows, 

Dark to me for evermore, 
Shone again in living gladness 

On some bright, celestial shore; 
If I knew that my torn bosom, 

Where that golden head was pressed. 
Were exchanged for holier pillow— 

For a loving Savior's breast ; 

If I knew those small, white fingers, 

Nevermore to cling to mine. 
Now in some seraphic circle 

Bended with the blest might twine; 
That thy voice with me had lingered 

But for prattling praise on high ; 
K'en no breaking heart could echo 

Thy last, parting, sweet " Bye-bye," — 



152 A MOTHER'S OFFERING 

But I dream ! Such hope is idle, 

And I dwell in doubt and pain ; 
And to heaven I cry, entreating, 

"Shall my darling live again?" 
And I hold my breath for answer. 

Seeming never to be heard : 
" Is my lamb within thy bosom — 

Tell me, tell me, O my Lord?" 

O ye women, mourning women, 

Who have seen your darlings die, 
Crying out of horrid darkness 

This perpetual, piteous cry — 
Pleading, " Rend, ye brazen heavens !" 

Glaring, gilded mockeries — down ! 
Saying, " Christ, the Holy Healer, 

Hath to-day forgot his own !" 

O ye women ! I a woman 

Have not worn my woes in vain, 
If, with ne'er so slight a solace, 

I may know your ponderous pain ! 
Deem not that your voice of waiting. 

Bound in silence must be kept; 
Weep, believing; believe, weeping: 

Tears are sacred, — '' Jesus wept." 



TO THE BEREAVED. 1 53 

In His boso77t — O, believe it ! — 

Sheltered sacredly, they dwell, 
Whom you could not hold so gently. 

Whom you could not love so well ; 
And the Eye that, ever watchful, 

Sees your never needless wound. 
Now beholds your gathered treasure. 

Radiant, joyful, robed, and crowned ! 

Nor the soul alone he gathers : 

In this garb of light arrayed. 
Shall the lyord forget ** this mortal," 

In his glorious image made? 
B'en the tangible you thirst for, 

Perishing beneath the rod. 
You shall clasp again in rapture; 

For the flesh shall see its God. 

In His bosom ! in His bosom ! 

There we, too, may sometime rest ; 
There alone may lose the longing, 

Voice hath never yet expressed. 
Now, let faith tread down the question, 

Let our mournful doubting cease ; 
For the lyord shall teach his children, 

" Great, indeed, shall be your peace !" 



154 ^ mother's offering 

rv]lne. 

BY RUTH M, LIVEZBY. 

tAINTY, winsome fairy, 
Art thou mine ? 
^ Life 's no longer dreary, 
But divine. 

What hast thou been dreaming 

Here by me? 
Whisper what the angels 

Say to thee. 

Sure they sent thee to me. 

Baby dear; 
What rich blessing to thee 

Can compare? 

Earth is decked with flowers 

Thee to greet; 
Birds sing in green bowers 

Songs most sweet. 

Listen to their music, 

Cooing dove ; 
Their clear notes have nothing 

Else but love. 

Thou 'It have love the truest 

Ever seen ; 
We '11 give gifts the rarest 

To our queen. 



TO THE BEREAVED. 1 55 

Thou, SO like a lily, 

White and pure; 
The joy thou bringst surely 

Will endure. 

Thou art like a bright star 

In dark night; 
Only near, while that is far, 

Giving light. 

Rosy, dimpled finger. 

Eyes that shine ; 
Mouth where kisses linger, — 

And thou 'rt mine ! 

Tl^ere 15 no "©eatJ^. 

BY LORD LYTTON. 

^HERE is no death! The stars go 
down 
To shine upon some fairer shore. 
And bright in heaven's jeweled crown 
They shine for evermore. 

There is no death ! The dust we tread 
Shall change beneath the summer showers 

To golden grain, or mellow fruit. 
Or rainbow-tinted flowers. 

There is no death ! The leaves may fall, 
The flowers may fade and pass away — 



156 A MOTHER'S OFFERING 

They only wait through wintry hours 
The coming of the May. 

There is no death ! An angel form 

Walks o'er the earth with silent tread, 

He bears our best belov'd away, 
And then we call them " dead." 

He leaves our hearts all desolate, 

He plucks our fairest, sweetest flowers — 

Transplanted into bliss, they now 
Adorn immortal bowers. 

The birdlike voice, whose joyous tones 
Make glad this scene of sin and strife, 

Sings now in everlasting song 
Amid the tree of life. 

And where he sees a smile too bright, 
Or hearts too pure for taint and vice, 

He bears them to that world of light, 
To dwell in paradise. 

Born into that undjdng life. 

They leave us but to come again ; 

With joy we welcome them — the same 
Except in sin and pain. 

And ever near us, though unseen. 
The dear immortal spirits tread. 

For all the boundless universe 
Is life — there are no dead. 



TO THE BEREAVED, 1 57 

©ermsMt V/olK^lied. 

TRANSLATED BY ANNIE MATHESON, 

fT is the will of one above, 
That men should see what most they 
love 
Departing, 
Though through the world's wide circle 

there 
Is nothing half so hard to bear 
As parting. 

If thou a rosebud shouldst receive, 
Set in water, but believe 

My warning. 
It may with opening petals glow 
To-morrow ; it will wither, though. 

Next morning. 

Hast thou one love who seems a part 
Of thine own life? whose inmost heart 

Thou keepest ? 
When but a little while has flown, 
She will have left thee all alone, — 

Thou weepest ? 

Yet think this not a wayward cry ; 

When men clasp hands and say good-bye, 

Although the parting thrill with pain, 
They whisper, "Friend, auf wiederseh'n ! 

To meet again ! To meet again !" 



158 A mother's offering 



I^M.B measured the riotous baby 



'7^ Against the cottage wall; 
A lily grew at the threshold, 
And the boy was just as tall ! 
A royal tiger-lily, 

With spots of purple and gold, 
And a heart like a jewel goblet 
The fragrant dew to hold. 

Without, the bluebirds whistled 

High up in the old roof-trees, 
And to and fro at the window 

The red rose rocked her bees ; 
And the wee pink fists of the baby 

Were never a moment still. 
Snatching at shine and shadow 

That danced on the window-sill. 

His eyes were mild as bluebells. 

His mouth like a flower unblown; 
Two little bare feet like funny white mice 

Peeped out from his snowy gown ; 
And we thought with a thrill of rapture, 

That yet had a touch of pain, 
When June rolls round with her roses. 

We '11 measure the boy again. 



TO THE BEREAVED 1 59 

Ah, me ! In a darkened chamber, 

With the sunshine shut away. 
Through tears that fell like bitter rain 

We measured the boy to-day; 
And the little bare feet that were dimpled 

And sweet as a budding rose, 
I^ay side by side together 

In the hush of a long repose ! 

Up from the dainty pillow — 

White as the risen dawn — 
The fair little face lay smiling 

With the light of heaven thereon; 
And the dear little hands, like rose-leaves 

Dropped from a rose, lay still. 
Never to snatch at the sunshine 

That crept to the shrouded sill ! 

We measured the sleeping baby 

With ribbons white as snow, 
For the shining snowy casket 

That waited him below; 
And out of the darkened chamber 

We went with a childish moan ; 
To the height of the sinless angels 

Our little one had grown. 



l6o A MOTHER'S OFFERING 



EUGENE FIELD. 

^ COUNT my treasures o'er with care, 
^^ The little toy my darling knew, 

^ A little sock of faded hue, 
A little lock of golden hair. 

lyong years ago this holy time. 
My little one — my all to me — 
Sat robed in white upon my knee, 

And heard the merry Christmas chime. 

"Tell me, my little golden head. 

If Santa Claus should come to-night, 
What shall he bring my baby bright — 

What treasure for my boy?" I said. 

And then he named this little toy, 

While in his round and mournful eyes, 
There came a look of sweet surprise. 

That spoke his quiet trustful joy. 

And as he lisped his evening prayer, 

He asked the boon with childish grace; 
Then toddling to the chimney-place, 

He hung this little stocking there. 



TO THE BEREAVED. l6l 

That night, while lengthening shadows 
crept, 
I saw the white-winged angels come 
With singing to our lowly home, 

And kiss my darling as he slept. 

They must have heard his little prayer, 
For in the morn with rapturous face, 
He toddled to the chimney-place, 

And found this little treasure there. 

They came again, one Christmas-tide, — 
That angel host, so fair and white ; 
And singing all that glorious night, 

They lured my darling from my side. 

A little sock, a little toy, 
A little lock of golden hair, 
The Christmas music on the air, 

A watching for my baby-boy. 

But if again that angel train 

And golden head come back for me ; 
To bear me to eternity, 

My watching will not be in vain. 



1 62 A mother's offering 

Old tl^ey Went Up to cJerU^Gxlent. 

ROSA EVANGELINE ANGEL. 

fUR little lad, our bontiie twelve-year-old, 
Has journeyed to the city of the King; 
Our happy boy — ere heart could grow 
a-cold, 
Or soul turn bitter — in youth's joyous 
spring, 
Went up to keep the feast in that bright 
place, 
City of Peace, where restful mansions be ; 
And straightway looking on the dear King's 
face : 
Remembered naught but joy that face to 
see ! 

lyong time ago, when he was twelve years old, 
The Holy Child climbed fair Judea's hills, 
And his young mother in her heart did hold 
Strange words concerning him, whose 
mystery fills 
Her soul with wonder. On their home- 
ward way. 
The reverent pilgrims haste; and sor- 
rowing. 
She seeks her Son, and lo ! in calm delay, 
He lingered in the temple of the King ! 



TO THE BEREAVED, 1 63 

She, coming to the sacred portal, waits 
With tear- wan face; her fair first-born 
she seeks ; 
Weary and grief-worn, at the shining gates, 
With faltering lips his sweet home-name 
she speaks. 
And he is in her arms ! With tender word 
Of gentlest chiding, each to each re- 
vealed 
The love that to the depths of feeling stirred 
Hearts that brief absence near and dearer 
sealed. 

O mother, mourning for thy fair first-born, 
He tarries in his Father's House of 
Light, 
With God's belov'd; and thou in some 
glad morn. 
Finding the glorious gates beyond the 
night, 
Shalt breathe his name, and ere it leaves 
thy lips. 
In thy dear arms, aglow with life and joy, 
All strong and beautiful — death's long 
eclipse 
Forgotten in the first kiss of thy boy ! 



164 A MOTHER'S OFFERING 

Beyond. 

f THINK the first glad sound I shall 
hear, 
When I enter heaven, will be 
The musical patter of little feet, 
On the golden pave toward me. 

And peeping out between angel's bright 
wings, 

At the pearly gates, I shall see 
The dear little child who, with flying feet, 

Will be coming to welcome me. 

The lilies will fall from her fair little hands, 

Down on her robe of snow; 
She will hush her singing, and, reaching 
her arm. 

Will come to her mother, I know. 

I can feel, even now, the dear little hands 
That will gently quiver in mine ; 

And the dimpled arms that about my neck, 
As of old, will so fondly twine. 

But how will she know, through the fur- 
rows deep. 

And the dim, faded eyes and hair, 
The one on whose bosom she used to sleep, 

And whose face was then young and fair ? 



TO THE BEREAVED. 1 65 

Ah, these are of earth ! When I go to her, 

The eyes so used to tears 
Will shine with a luster fresh and bright, 

To begin on eternal years ! 

Then the silver hair a bright crown will be 

Of glory about my brow; 
" No spot, nor wrinkle, nor any such thing," 

Shall disfigure me then, as now. 

And Jesus, our Savior, will tenderly look 

At us, and, in accents mild, 
Will say to the angels : " That mother was 
led 

To me by that little child." 



Her h/[(^\e<y{i. 

"§|ER MAJESTY comes when the sun 
goes down, 
And clambers up to her throne — 
my knee ; 
Her royal robe is a small white gown, 

And this is Her Majesty's stern decree : 
*' Let me know when the Sandman passes 

by; 
For we 're going to speak to him, you and I." 



1 66 A 3f other's offering 

"There was once a monarch of old," I say, 
" Who sat where the beach and the break- 
ers met : 
* Roll back !' he said to the waves one day; 

For the royal feet must not be wet. 
But the waves rolled on; for things there 

be," 
I tell her, " that mind not majesty. 

"And silent and shy is the Sandman old. 
And never, I 'm sure, since the world 
began. 
Has any one seen the sands of gold. 

Or spoken a word to the kind old man ; 
But perhaps, when the twilight's gold turns 

gray. 
You may see the old Sandman pass this 
way. 

" For Your Majesty's eyes are young and 

bright. 
Though mine with the dust of time are 

dim, — 
And possibly queens have a clearer sight 
Than subjects who sway to a sovereign's 

whim. 
But I '11 watch for him. Sweetheart and 

Queen," I say, 
"And speak if I see him pass this way." 



TO THE BEREAVED. 167 

But the Sandman came ; for the young eyes 
drooped, 
And the small mouth curved in a drowsy 
smile ! 
Then down to Her Majesty's lips I stooped, 
And kissed her, and whispered a prayer 
the while : 
" O Thou that givest thy loved ones sleep, 
This night, Her Majesty safely keep !" 

/\ %on^ of Trouble. 

FRANK L. STANTON. 

flTTlvE bit of a fellow- 
Could n't get him to sleep ; 
And the mother sighed as he tossed 
and cried : 
" He 's such a trouble to keep !" 
Little bit of a fellow — 
Could n't get him to sleep ! 

lyittle bit of a fellow — 

But the eyes of the mother weep ; 
For one sad night that was lost to light 

God smiled and kissed him to sleep — 
Little bit of a fellow, 

And he was n't a trouble to keep ! 



l68 A MOTHER'S OFFERING 

JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY. 

fET me come in where you sit weeping. 
Aye, 
•^ Let me who have not any child to die^ 
Weep with you for the little one, whose love 
I have known nothing of. 

The little arms that slowly, slowly loosed 
Their pressure round your neck — the hands 

you used 
To kiss — such arms — such hands I never 

knew. 
May I not weep with you? 

Fain would I be of service, say something, 
Between the tears, that would be comforting. 
But ah ! so sadder than yourselves am I, 
Who have no child to die. 

"There shall we meet; parent and child, 
and dearer 
That earthly love which makes half 
heaven of home ; 
There shall we find our treasures all await- 
ing, 
Where change and death and parting 
never come." 



TO THE BEREAVED. 1 69 

"OeG^tl^ (a ©am. 

fWHAT is death? 'tis a fleeting 
breath- 
A simple but blessed change; 
'T is rending a chain that the soul may gain 

A higher and broader range ; 
Unbounded space is its dwelling-place, 

Where no human foot hath trod, 

But everywhere doth it feel the care. 

And the changeless love of God. 

O, then, though you weep when your loved 
ones sleep, 

When the rose on the cheek grows pale. 
Yet their forms of light, just concealed from 
sight, 

Are only behind the veil ; 
With their faces fair and their shining hair. 

With blossoms of beauty crowned. 
They will also stand, with a helping hand, 

When you shall be outward bound. 

" ThkrK is no hearth, this merry Christmas- 
tide, 
But one dear face is missing, that was wont 
To make the joy and sunlight of our lives 
Sweeter to us than all the world beside." 



lyo A mother's offering 

fOMETIME, when all life's lessons have 
been learned, 
And sun and stars for evermore have 
set, 
The things which our weak judgment here 
has spurned, 
The things o'er which we grieved with 
lashes wet, 
Will flash before us out of life's dark night, 
As stars shine most in deepest tints of 
blue ; 
And we shall see how all God's plans were 
right, 
And how what seemed reproof was love 
most true. 

And we shall see then, while we frown and 
sigh, 
God's plans go on as best for you and me ; 
How, when we called, he heeded not our 
cry 
Because his wisdom to the end could see. 
And e'en as prudent parents disallow 

Too much of sweet to craving babyhood, 
So God, perhaps, is keeping from us now 
lyife's sweetest things, because it seemeth 
good. 



TO THE BEREAV^ED, 171 

And if, sometimes, commingled with life's 
wine. 
We find the wormwood, and rebel and 
sink. 
Be sure a wiser Hand than yours or mine 
Pours out this portion for our lips to 
drink. 
And if some friend we love is lying low, 
Where human kisses can not reach his 
face, 
O, do not blame the loving Father so. 
But bear your sorrow with obedient 
grace. 

And you shall shortly know that lengthened 
breath 
Is not the sweetest gift God sends his 
friend ; 
And that, sometimes, the sable pall of death 
Conceals the fairest bloom his love can 
send. 
If we could push ajar the gates of life, 
And stand within, and all God's workings 
see. 
We could interpret all this doubt and 
strife. 
And for each mystery could find a key. 



172 A mother's offering 

But not to- day. Then be content, poor 
heart ; 
God's plans, like lilies pure and white, 
unfold ; 
We must not tear the close-shut leaves 
apart ; 
Time will reveal the calyxes of gold. 
And if, through patient toil we reach the 
land 
Where tired feet, with sandals loose, may 
rest. 
When we shall clearly know and under- 
stand, 
I think that we will say that ** God knows 
best." 



"b|oW I Lay Fv^c ©oWn to ^leep/' 

fN the quiet nursery chambers. 
Snowy pillows yet unpressed, 
See the forms of little children 

Kneeling, white-robed, for their rest ; 
All in quiet nursery chambers, 

While the dusky shadows creep. 

Hear the voices of the children — 

"Now I lay me down to sleep." 



TO THE BEREAVED. 1 73 

"If we die " — so pray the children, 

And the mother's head droops low — 
(One from out her fold is sleeping 

Deep beneath the winter's snow), 
" Take our souls," — and past the casement 

Flits a gleam of crystal light. 
Like the trailing of his garments. 

Walking evermore iu white, 

BY GEORGE COOPER, 

^ATCHING at eve by the window 
Till I had wandered in sight. 
Shouting and toddling to meet me, 
Patting her hands with delight; 
Hugging and kissing me sweetly, 

Lips like the rosiest dew. 
Running away and then calling, 
" 1 11 be up-stairs before you !" 

Often at twilight I linger, 

Waiting in silence to hear 
One little voice gently calling, 

Two little feet patter near. 
Then on my heart sadly echo 

Words that, alas ! were so true. 
While her dear arms clung round me, 

" I'll be up-stairs before you!" 



174 ^ mother's offering 

M CIvOSElyY held within my arms 



^ A jewel rare ; 

^ Never had one so rich and pure 
Engaged my care. 

'T was my own, my precious jewel, 

God gave it me. 
'T was mine ; who else could care for it 

So tenderly ? 

But the dear Master came one day 

My gem to take ; 
"I can not let it go," I cried, 

" My heart would break." 

" Nay, but the Master comes for it. 

To bear above, 
To deck his royal diadem ; 

He comes in love." 

" But, Master, it is my treasure — 

My jewel rare ; 
I *11 safely guard and keep it pure 

And very fair." 

" If thou keepest thy gem," he said, 

" It may be lost. 
The threshhold of my home no thief 

Has ever crossed. 

And where the heart's rich treasure is 
The heart will be ; 



TO THE BEREAVED, 1 75 

Your jewel will be safe above, 

Gone before thee." 
The Master said these words and gazed 

With pitying look, 
While in the early hush of morn 

My gem he took. 
Close to my breast that morn I held — 

Tears falling fast — 
An empty casket; the bright gem 

Was safe at last. 
"Yes, Master, thou mayest keep my own, 

For it is thine, — 
Safe in the house not made with hands, 

' T is thine and ^2«d'." 

** Lkt us be patient ; God has taken from us 
The earthly treasure upon which we 
leaned, 
That from the fleeting things which lie 
around us, 
Our clinging hearts should be forever 
weaned. 

These earthly walls must shortly be dis- 
mantled, 
These earthly tents be struck by angel 
hands. 
But to be built upon a sure foundation. 
There, where our Father's Mansion ever 
stands." 



176 A mother's offering 

F one had watched a prisoner many a 



i 



year, 

^ Standing behind a barred window-pane, 
Fettered with heavy handcuff and with 

chain, 
And gazing on the blue sky far and clear. 
And suddenly some morning he should hear 
The man had in the night contrived to gain 
His freedom and was safe, would this bring 

pain? 
Ah ! would it not to the dullest heart ap- 
pear 
Good tidings? 

Yesterday I looked on one 
Who lay as if asleep in perfect peace ; 
His long imprisonment for life was done. 
Eternity's great freedom his release 
Had brought. Yet they who loved him 

called him dead, 
And wept, refusing to be comforted. 

"We pass from the clasp of mourning 
friends, 

To the arms of the loved and lost. 
And those smiling faces will greet us there, 

Which on earth we have valued most." 



TO THE BEREAVED 1 77 

©epaTTCvrtKos. 

BY DAVID H. MOORE. 

fO a parent whose child lies dead before 
her, there is a sense of inadequacy in 
human comfort. Those who have not 
experienced such a loss seem to speak from 
a remote distance — to be groping in blind- 
ness to bring her relief. Only the honesty 
of their intention saves them from being 
positively painful. Those who have met 
such a loss seem to feel it necessary to ex- 
hibit a parity of suffering with hers : while 
to her thought, the supposition that an- 
other's pain ever could have been equal to 
hers is offensive. She craves sj^mpathy, 
yet sympathy defeats its own purpose ; she 
invites it, yet when it comes, is not at 
home to receive it. She would have relief, 
yet clings to wretchedness as before she 
clung to her darling. The very woe her 
darling's death creates seems most nearly 
to represent her darling — to take its 
place — so that to remove it would be to in- 
flict a fresh loss. 

This is nature, unreasoning, unreasona- 
ble, and is the insanity of sorrow. How 
shall it be treated? It must be left to run 
12 



178 A mother's offering 

its course, to expend its violence, to waste 
its force. There must be new scenes, new 
associations, new life — these for the phys- 
ical tonic. New faith drawn from the great 
truths of providence and redemption, of 
immortality, resurrection, and the life ever- 
lasting — these for the spiritual tonic. 

Time will come when the dead shall be 
regarded as the only living; when the 
abysmal loss, glowing with divine love, 
shall seem the radiant entrance to eternal 
joys; when the sufferings of this present 
time — these light afflictions which are but 
for a moment — shall be deemed unworthy 
of comparison with the exceeding and 
eternal weight of glory which shall be re- 
vealed in us ; when to the purified vision 
of faith our loved ones shall appear in the 
paradise of God, and this paean of our vic- 
tory over sin, death, and the grave, swells 
through all the caverns of our woe : 

*' O, what are all my sufferings here 
If, Iword, thou count me meet 
With that enraptured host to appear 

And worship at thy feet ? 
Give joy or grief, give ease or pain, 

Take life or friends away, 
But let me find them all again 
In that eternal day." 
The Cincinnati Wesleyan College, October 18, i8-j8. 



TO THE BEREAVED, 1 79 



ti)eW and l^^xtnboW. 

TRANSLATED FROM JEAN PAUL RICHTER BY HOWARD HEN- 
DERSON, D. D. 

t FATHER took his child at early morn 
o^^ a walk across the fields. The little 
fellow would shake the shrubs in the 
green hedgerows, and as the showers of 
jeweling dew fell, glittering in the sun- 
beams, was filled with infant delight. 

They continued the walk, and when they 
returned, the child again sought to shake 
down the dew; but finding none, tearfully 
asked whence it had gone. His sorrow was 
assuaged by a promise that it would ap- 
pear again, in a more beautiful form. The 
same evening a rainbow scarfed the shoul- 
ders of a cloud; and, 

" Like the wing of the Deity, 
Calmly unfurled, 
Bent from the cloud, 

And encircled the world." 

The father called his boy, and pointed to 
the arch of beauty, saying : " See, the van- 
ished dew of the morning has become the 
glory of the heaven at even. Be taught, 
my child, that whatever of worth is lost to 
earth is gained to heaven." 

The father knew not he spake prophetic 



i8o A mother's offering 

words, for the next morning his child was 
exhaled from earth; but he was comforted 
with the hope of meeting him in heaven. 

0\xv ©cad Boy. 

M SAW my wife pull out the bottom 
S drawer of the old bureau this evening, 
^ and I went softly out and wandered up 
and down until I knew she had shut it up 
and gone to her sewing. We have some 
things laid away in that drawer which the 
gold of kings could not buy, and yet they 
are relics which grieve us until both our 
hearts are sore. I haven't dared look at 
them for a year, but I remember each arti- 
cle. There are two worn shoes, a little 
chip hat with part of the brim gone, some 
stockings, pantaloons, a coat, two or three 
spools, bits of broken crockery, a whip, 
and several toys. Wife, poor thing, goes 
to that drawer every day of her life, and 
prays over it, and lets her tears fall upon 
the precious articles, but I dare not go. 
Sometimes we speak of little Jack, but not 
often. It has been a long time, but some- 
how we can't get over grieving. Some- 
times, when we sit alone of an evening, I 



TO THE BEREAVED. l8l 

writing and she sewing, a child in the street 
will call out as our boy used to. And we 
will both start up with beating hearts and 
a wild hope, only to find the darkness more 
of a burden than ever. It is still and quiet 
now. I look up to the window where his 
blue eyes used to sparkle at my coming, 
but he is not there. I listen for his patter- 
ing feet, his merry shout, and his ringing 
laugh, but there is no sound. There is no 
one to search my pockets and tease me for 
presents ; and I never find the chair turned 
over, the broom down, or ropes tied to the 
door-knobs. I want some one to tease me 
for my knife ; to ride on my shoulders ; to 
lose my ax ; to follow me to the gate when 
I go, and be there to meet me when I come ; 
to call " Good-night " from the little bed now 
empty. And wife, she misses him still 
more. There are no little feet to wash, 
no prayers to say, no voice teasing for 
lumps of sugar, or sobbing with the pain 
of a hurt toe ; and she would give her own 
life, almost, to awake at midnight and look 
across to the crib and see our boy there 
as he used to be. So we preserve our rel- 
ics ; and when we are dead we hope that 
strangers will handle them tenderly, even 
if they shed no tears over them. 



1 82 A mother's offering 



BY E. B. STEVENS. 

fHE day's sport had been wearisome, and 
I was stretched on the bleak, rocky out- 
look of the mountain spur. Nothing 
could be wilder than the old, unbroken 
forests and the irregular breaks in the 
mountain range, where I had toiled for 
hours in pursuit of the noble game whose 
cries in the distance, even now, lent almost 
a supernatural shade to the surroundings. 
There I gazed out dreamily on a scene of 
the rarest, most sensuous beauty. Nestled 
down in the heart of this wildness was a 
vale of such loveliness that I rubbed my 
eyes to make sure that it was, after all, not 
a delicious dream. Nature had used her 
own handicraft in the green slopes and 
patches of woodland, and the rill that 
wound amidst the glades so quietly here and 
there, that you thought it a belt of molten 
silver; and then, with a musical trill, you 
watched it leap gracefully down the side of 
broken cliffs, again to rush along until lost 
in the turn of the valley. To all this was 
added the taste of a poet, who had brought 
his young bride to possess this bit of para- 



TO THE BEREAVED, 1 83 

dise nestled in so much luxuriant wildness. 
Every nook and spot was beautified with 
his glorified taste. Just on the opposite 
slope was his gem of a cottage, half hidden 
with climbers, and embowered amongst 
rare plants and bright-colored flowering 
shrubs. On the rustic bench, partly re- 
clining, was the fairest dream of young 
motherhood: her bright-eyed and bright- 
haired boy sportfully climbing about her 
neck, toying with a wealth of flaxen tresses 
with which, in the loving sport, his own 
curly locks mingled almost undistinguish- 
able. Just by stood the poet-father: no 
gleam of sunshine so ripe and mellow as 
the glad light of his loving eyes. The 
present was intoxicating bliss — a dream of 
the future worth and fame of that fair boy 
lit up the father's heart with an eager, 
hungry hope. 

iH * :{t * * * 

Years went by. Grave duties and anx- 
ious cares had long since banished the 
bright vision of that autumn day. But 
once I was called, in the hurried round of 
life-work, to mingle in the whirl of a great 
city. In the gayest, most reckless circle, 
I always heard of a youth of rare qualities, 
but the leader of dissipation and youthful 



1 84 ^ MOTHER'S OFFERING 

wrong-doing. I met that j^outh once. He 
had betrayed his generous patron, the 
friend of his father. There was the mark 
of evil on his brow, the eye was bloodshot 
and angry ; but there was the same broad 
forehead, the same stamp of intellect, the 
same flaxen curls of a child that once 
flashed up in a fair vision, and then van- 
ished for all these busy years. 



Other years made their swift cycle. I 
stood in the crowded mart, and suddenly 
the air was dinned with the angry howl of 
a vicious mob. Curses and imprecations 
made the flesh creep. There was a surge — 
a bitter howl of anguish. A murder had 
been done. Ofiicers were doing their duty, 
and dragging their prisoner to justice. 
Again! Is it true? Is it not a horrid 
nightmare? Is it once more my fair-haired, 
beautiful child of the poet's dream and 
happy vale, blood upon his hands, and mur- 
der in his blighted, miserable, prematurely- 
aged heart? 

A shrill scream of terror filled the air 
and pierced my heart. I sprang wildly to 
my feet. I was again on the mountain 



TO THE BEREAVED, 1 85 

Spur, and just below me that fair young 
mother gave to the mountain side another 
cry of anguish. A hungry wolf had stolen 
from his lair, and suddenly springing upon 
that beautiful boy in the midst of his sports 
and glee, had already made for the stunted 
undergrowth just beyond where I had been 
so lazily dreaming. It was but a moment 
— a lucky shot made swift accounts with 
the daring robber. But ah! sad enough, 
his cruel teeth had sunk down into the 
white throat, and the spurt of vital crim- 
son that stained the sward told of a poet's 
dream and hope all shattered with the too- 
successful work of the hungry beast. O, 
how beautiful was the dear, darling, dead 
boy! 

^£ ^£ ^£ itf ^}^ )K 

The loving heart of a poet-father was 
crushed ; a poet's bright hopes of fame and 
glory for a flaxen-haired boy were dead 
with him ; a bright mother was all crushed 
and broken, and would not be comforted ! 
But then, my poor, wretched nightmare 
was gone, and sadly, I hardly knew whither. 
My vision was loveliness and happiness 
and truth ; my dream was a revelation of 
what was so kindly hindered by a loving, 
thoughtful Father. 



"Life, we'vz been long together 
Through pleasant and through cloudy 

weather; 
'T is hard to part when friends are dear, — 
Perhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear; 

Then steal away, give little warning, 
Choose thine own time; 
Say not Good-night — but, in some brighter 
clime, 

Bid me Good-morning." 

i86 



Inele^. 



PAGE. 

A Fabi,k, 182 

Among the Angels, 90 

A Mother's Heart 68 

A Song of Trouble, 167 

A Lullaby, 75 

After the Funeral, 113 

Arrival — Departure — Reunion, 72 

A Little Dead Prince, 104 

Alice Gary's Sweetest Poem, 130 

A Sunbeam and a Shadow, 24 

And when He was Twelve Years Old, They 
went up to Jerusalem, 162 

Bereaved, 168 

Beyond, 164 

Baby Dead, 136 

Broken Playthings, 93 

Baby Louise, 63 

By the Shore of the River, 100 

Baby's Shoes, 129 

Baby Looking Out for Me, 39 

Christmas Treasures, 160 

Comfort in the Night, 149 

Children in Heaven, 132 

Consolation, 29 

Christmas in Heaven, 25 

Comfort, 19 

187 



1 88 INDEX, 

Death, 12 

Dew and Rainbow, 179 

Divided— United, 88 

Dear Ivittle Hands, 48 

Death a Gain, 169 

Dead, , 34 

Empty Cradi^k, The, 17 

FivOWERS, II 

Freddie's Grave, 71 

Freddie Hancock, 13 

Gone to His Litti^e Boy Bi,ue, 57 

Gone Before, 120 

Grandfather's Pet, .' 133 

God's Plans, 170 

Heaven 107 

He Gathers the Lambs, 151 

How an Angel Looks, no 

Her Majesty, 165 

Hopeless Sorrow, 16 

Is IT WeIvI. with the Chii^d? 140 

I 'm Hurried, Child, 30 

In Memoriam, 28 

If We Knew, 14 

Lifted Over, 103 

Love and Death, 150 

Little Graves, 32 

Little Boy Blue, 56 



INDEX. 189 

Mine 154 

My Bad Little Boy, 41 

My Darling's Shoes, 37 

Measuring the Baby, 158 

My Lambs, 95 

Mine, 174 

My Child, 50 

My Baby Sleeps, 89 

My Neighbor 62 

No HEI.P, 144 

Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep, 172 

Nap-Land, 102 

Oni^y a Lock of Hair, 76 

Our Dead Boy, 180 

Our Baby, 74 

One Little Curl, •• ... 124 

One Year Ago, 69 

Only a Baby's Grave, 20 

Only a Curl, 78 

Only Seven Years Old, 81 

On a Curl of Child's Hair, 18 

Passed Away, 22 

Prince's-Feather, 64 

Philip, My King, 122 

Papa's Letter, 45 

rei^ease, 176 

Safe Poinded, 121 

Shall We know Our Friends in Heaven? . . 126 
Some Day, 58 



I90 INDEX. 

The Baby, 21 

Too Smooth, Too White, 77 

The Feet that Never Stray, 91 

The Unfinished Song, 148 

There is no Death, 155 

The Loved and Lost, 137 

The Baby's Drawer, 142 

The Little Frock, 146 

The Favorite Child, 44 

Tired Mothers, 35 

The Little Boy that Died, 53 

The Empty Crib, 59 

To an Infant in Heaven, .60 

To Mrs. Ruggles, 108 

©epaTrevTiKOS, 177 

Up-Stairs 157 

VOI^KSWED, 173 

Victor, -Ill 

We Miss Her Everywhere, 87 

Waiting, 118 



m 4 1839 




LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 

018 597 432 7 




